


Rising Sons

by amnesiawife



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Canon-Typical Violence, Dean Winchester Cooks, Food as a Metaphor for Love, John Winchester Has No Chill, M/M, Now Featuring Castiel, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Plot Centric, Sam Winchester Has Magic, Slow Burn, Time Travel, i'll update them as i go along, the slowest of slow burns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:55:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 49,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28398813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amnesiawife/pseuds/amnesiawife
Summary: Raised by Missouri and a community of psychics, Sam and Dean grew up with a drastically different view of the supernatural. Now Sam is a witch, John is a hunter, Dean is caught somewhere in between, the apocalypse is still on course for completion, and Castiel may have made a small mistake in the interpretation of his orders.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 34
Kudos: 57





	1. Tea for One

**THEN**

The man in Missouri Moseley’s living room was coming apart at the seams.

Missouri saw plenty of clients who were in trouble, and not just the kind that came from their own negativity and self-doubt. She’d seen many nasty things in her days as a psychic - human, inhuman, and sometimes something in between. But none of it quite compared to what had come for John Winchester’s family, or what now resided in his soul. There was a knot of darkness in the pit of that man. There was little else left to keep him from flying into pieces.

Missouri shook her head, mind swirling with grim and terrifying thoughts as she busied herself with making tea. She was already second guessing her decision to tell John the truth. Maybe she should have told him a nice lie, set his mind at ease, let him go back to his ordinary life and try to scrape the shards of it together into something livable. Only, whatever had been in that house that night, it had been dangerous. Missouri couldn’t guarantee that it would never come back. John deserved to know that.

And also...she’d been afraid. When she’d sensed the remnants of it there, lingering in that nursery as a thick miasma of malice and hate, she hadn’t wanted to be alone. She’d needed someone, anyone else, to know that evil had touched that place. There was no other way to stand it. Perhaps that had been selfish of her. She was already beginning to feel guilty.

If it had just been John up against the thing that had killed his wife, that would have been one thing. Missouri wouldn’t apologize for showing a man the thing he’d come looking for. But the children changed things.

“Do you like sugar with your tea?” Missouri asked the little boy sitting at her kitchen table, a baby cradled in his arms.

Dean Winchester shrugged.

He was young enough, Missouri thought, that he might never have had tea before. She sighed and tried not to let him see her misgivings. Children were sensitive to those sorts of things.

“I’ll put a little bit in for you,” she said. “Careful - it’s hot.”

She set the cup down in front of Dean. He hesitated, then tentatively reached for it with one hand.

“My dad…” he started to say, then stopped.

Missouri could see what he’d meant to ask.

“He just needs a little bit of time,” she said. “He’s got to figure out what to do next.”

“About what happened to Mom?” Dean asked.

“Now what do you know about that?”

Dean shrugged again. He was eyeing her warily, like he wasn’t sure if he could trust her or not. What he must have seen and heard in the last few days to make him so worried…

“Something bad happened,” he said. “That’s all I know.”

He’d picked up much more than that, Missouri could tell. Perceptive little boy. It might save him some trouble in the long run - or get him into more. Only time would tell.

“You just keep looking after your brother,” Missouri said. “You’ve done a good job of it so far. Leave the worrying to the adults. Alright?”

Pleased at the compliment, Dean nodded, and set his tea back down so that he could pull Sam closer to his chest. The baby stirred and cooed in Dean’s arms, but was otherwise quiet. They were both good boys. John was lucky. It was unlikely that he knew it.

“Sit tight,” Missouri said. “We won’t be much longer.”

She picked up the tray with the teapot, cups, and sugar, and took them back out into the living room. 

John was still sitting hunched over on the couch, a cloud over his thoughts so dark that Missouri could practically see it with her bare eyes. He stared into the middle distance, hands clenched together over his knees. From an outsider’s perspective, he could almost be mistaken for a man deep in prayer. Missouri knew better. He was planning.

“I know I’ve told you a lot tonight,” Missouri said, setting the tray down in front of him. “Maybe more than you wanted to hear.”

“No,” John said. “I needed to hear it. Thank you. For the truth.”

“Yes, well,” Missouri said. “I’m sorry to have given you more questions than answers.”

“That’s alright,” John said. “This is enough to start with.” He held his hand out to refuse the cup that Missouri offered him. “No, thank you. I’m afraid there’s one more thing I need to ask from you.”

“You won’t share a cup of tea with me but you want me to do you a favor?” Missouri asked sharply.

John gave her a flat look.

“Take it,” Missouri said, offering it to him again. “Maybe it’ll calm you down. Make you think about things a little harder.”

John frowned, but took the tea.

“I’ve thought all I need to,” he said. “It’s nearly all I’ve done since...since Mary was killed. It’s time to do more than think. That’s why I came to you.” He took a sip, grimaced, then glanced away, toward the kitchen.

“John,” Missouri said warningly.

“My sons,” John said. “Can you watch them for a little while?”

“They’re your children,” Missouri said, and meant - don’t leave them here. Not like this.

“Just for a few days,” John went on. “If you can’t, then tell me someone who can. Someone who knows about what’s out there and can protect them from it.” He looked pained. “I can’t protect them, not where I’m going, and they need to be safe. They’re all I have now.”

“They are,” Missouri agreed. “So why are you in such a hurry to hand them off?”

“It’s Mary,” John said helplessly. He shook his head, momentarily wordless, as if he couldn’t imagine needing to say anything more. “It took Mary from me, Missouri. If you had met her, you would understand.”

But Missouri had already met the love of her life. She had lost him, too. She knew both sides of that terrible devotion - the security and the grief. She also knew something else. She knew her son - James, fourteen years old now - was crouched at the top of the stairs just out of sight, inconspicuously listening in.

“Your boys need you,” Missouri said.

John shook his head again.

“This is no life for them,” he said. “Dean’s only four. Sam’s only a baby! I can’t take them where I’m going. It’s too dangerous.”

“Then don’t go,” Missouri pleaded. “Whatever it was that did this -”

“I’ve made up my mind,” John said, voice like steel. “I need answers. I need to know what happened that night and - and I need to make whatever did it pay.”

Missouri looked down at the dregs of her tea through the still steaming water. It was too soon to read them. They hadn’t settled yet. There was still tea left to drink, still time for things to become something other than what they were becoming. But she watched them swirl and felt something ominous in their movements, like the omen that came before the omen.

“What will you do if I say no?” she asked.

“Take them with me,” John said at once. “I don’t want to. But if it’s what I have to do to keep them safe, then I will.”

Missouri sighed and set her cup back down on the tray. She reached up to rub at the pain in her temple, tried to ease it, but her head was filled with aches - those of the past, those of the present, and those of the future. They were all tangled up in one another, dense, and all of it painful.

“Alright,” she acquiesced at last. “I’ll watch them for you. But only for a little while, John. Do you hear me? Whatever fool errand you’re thinking of, you’d better come back from it quick.”

“I swear to you, Missouri,” John said.

But Missouri had heard plenty of men swear to her before. They’d all meant it, too. It hadn’t made a difference in the end.

“You’d better explain to them where you’re going,” she said, picking up her cup to take a steadying drink. “Lord knows I’m not going to do it for you.”

John sagged in relief.

“Thank you,” he breathed.

“Don’t thank me yet,” she muttered.

She felt like the weaver who makes the rope for the hangman’s noose. Not her fault. Not her crime. Even so - inescapably party to the execution.

John stood and went to the kitchen, leaving his tea sitting on the table, still mostly untouched. He’d hardly had more than a sip. Missouri resisted the urge to lean over and see what his tea leaves were doing. Her curiosity wasn’t great enough to overcome her trepidation.

For several long minutes, she sat quietly in the living room, finishing her own tea, studiously not listening to the low conversation happening in her kitchen. What was she going to do with these two boys? She could hardly mind the one she had. And James - James wasn’t going to be happy about this.

But the thought of John dragging those two after him on his hunt for revenge…

In her cup, the water dwindled. The leaves swirled. Omens flashed before her eyes. This she knew about tea leaves and omens alike: You could ignore them all you wanted to, but if you did, it would all go bitter from oversteeping.

When John came back out, his eyes were wet. Missouri didn’t let that fool her into feeling pity. He was still leaving, after all.

“You have my number,” Missouri said, following him to the door. “Don’t you lose it.”

“I’ll call,” John promised. “Every night.”

For how many nights, though? Until John was swallowed up in some rabbit hole, tumbling down into a place that couldn’t be reached? Until the days slipped together into one long, sleepless marathon, each hour indistinguishable from the last? Sure, he would call. When he remembered that time had passed.

“You do that,” was all Missouri said.

John nodded and shook her hand one last time.

Once the door had closed, Missouri picked up the tray from the table in the living room and took it back into the kitchen. Setting it down on the counter by the sink, she reached out to push aside the curtains over the kitchen window just in time to hear an engine roar to life and to see a set of tail lights flicker on, burning red like the cherries of a twin pair of cigarettes.

Missouri watched the car pull away from the curb, listened to its rumble as it disappeared down the street and around the corner, off into the night and the universe at large. Then she turned to look back at the two small children still sitting at her table. Dean stared up at her, his small face filled with uncertainty.

“Is Dad coming back?” he asked.

Missouri tried to give him a comforting smile. She mostly failed.

“I’m sure he’ll try, sweetpea,” she said. “That’s all any of us can do, really. Try our best.”

Dean said nothing to this, only looked down at the baby sleeping quietly in his arms.

“It’s okay, Sammy,” he murmured. “I’m going to take care of you.”

Missouri glanced back out the window one more time, then let the curtains fall closed. John was long gone now, even the sound of the Impala nothing more than a distant memory. Whether or not he came back, whether or not he died out there doing who knows what foolish, headstrong thing, she felt certain it wouldn’t really matter. Tonight, Sam and Dean Winchester had lost their father.

She only hoped that it would be the end of their losses. They didn’t have much left.

][

**NOW**

The first night Sam woke from a nightmare of fire and death, he lay panting for a long time in his bed, hearing nothing but his own heartbeat in his ears and the echo of his own screams. His skin was slick with sweat. Spots danced in front of his eyes as his gaze darted here and there across the ceiling, as if to ensure the vision from his dream hadn’t been real. But there was nothing more sinister than the overhead light.

Slowly, he began to calm back down. He swallowed, and then had to do it again when he found his mouth was bone dry. He was just sitting up to reach for the glass of water on his nightstand when there was a knock on the door - almost deafeningly loud in the ringing silence.

“You okay there, Sammy?” Dean asked from the hall. “You were yelling in your sleep.”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “Just - just a bad dream.”

There was a pause. Then the door was creaking open, and Dean was standing there with a steaming mug in hand.

“What’s that?” Sam asked.

“Tea,” Dean said, entering Sam’s bedroom and crossing toward him. “Sounded like you needed it.”

Sam accepted the drink gratefully. He wondered how long the nightmare had gone on that Dean had had time to be woken by it and then to go boil water. It had felt like only a few minutes, but now that he was awake it wore on him like it had been years. Sam shook himself and took a sip.

“Thanks.”

And he meant it. The tea settled him. It filled his stomach and bones with something stable and secure and warm. The comfort it brought tingled in his fingertips and curled up like a cat in a sunbeam at the base of his spine. Dean’s cooking always did something like that. Sam knew better than to ask what was in it, though. The answer was obvious - a pinch of cinnamon, a splash of alcohol, and a measure of something that Dean would furiously deny was magic.

“You want to talk about it?” Dean asked, still looking down at him warily. “You haven’t had one that bad since -”

He didn’t finish the thought. He didn’t need to. They both knew what he was referring to - that long month of torment after Sam’s stupid teenage foray into a darker kind of magic. Each night he’d been plagued by horrific dreams of suffering in a bloody and shadowed realm where dark, insubstantial shades whispered his name. No doubt that was why Dean was so concerned. He was probably wondering what it was that Sam had done now.

“It wasn’t like that,” Sam said, shaking his head. “This was too real, too lifelike. I didn’t know that I was dreaming at all until I woke up.”

“What happened?”

Dean sank down to sit on the edge of Sam’s bed. Sam took another sip of his tea, focusing on its heat, its soft spice, and not on the crawling dread that the nightmare had brought him.

“I was closing up shop,” Sam said. “Then I came upstairs. I was looking for you, I think. I wanted to talk to you about something - I can’t remember what - but I couldn’t find you anywhere. There was a sound, in my room, and I went in, and…”

He trailed off.

“What, I was going through your shit?” Dean asked. “You know I think your crap’s too lame to mess with.”

Sam scoffed.

“No, shut up,” he said. “You weren’t there. I turned around to leave, except something dripped on my shoulder. I looked up and.” He left out a shaky breath. “You were on the ceiling. And then you caught fire.”

Dean stared at him for a moment.

“You mean like Mom,” he said.

“Yeah,” Sam said. “That’s how Dad always said it went down, anyway.”

“Huh,” Dean said. “So why are you dreaming about it now?”

“No idea,” Sam said. “Something I ate, maybe?”

Dean scowled. He cooked most of what Sam ate, and he’d never given anyone nightmares before. Not accidentally, anyway.

“Or it was something else,” he said tersely. “Are you sure it was just a dream?”

“What else could it be?” Sam shrugged.

“I don’t know,” Dean said. “But we better not take chances. You and I have both seen what ignoring omens can do.”

And they had. Having spent their formative years in the parlors and kitchens of psychics and hedge witches, Sam and Dean had seen plenty of thoughtless souls receive signs that they chose to ignore to their own detriment. They had shaken their heads, rolled their eyes, and gone back to making houses out of tarot cards, all the while thinking - you could lead a horse to spiritual intervention, but you couldn’t make it drink. They’d hardly make the same mistake themselves. 

“Yeah, I guess,” Sam said.

“We’ll ask Missouri about it when we go over for dinner tomorrow night,” Dean resolved. He stood up. “Try to get some shut eye. God knows you need your beauty sleep.”

Sam slumped back down into his bed with a groan.

“You’re such a jerk,” he complained.

“Bitch,” Dean tossed back, slipping out into the hall.

The door snapped shut, and Sam was left alone to sip his tea and try to forget the dead-eyed look on dream Dean’s face just before the fire had consumed him. He hoped that it really had been just a nightmare. The alternative was that they were in trouble. Dean was in danger. And if it involved the thing that had killed Mom, then…

Sam’s gaze slipped from the mug he held, down to the hands that held it and then up, along his bare arms, both of them covered in colorful tattoos of intertwining sigils and magical designs - the little green snakes that twisted up to his knuckles; the string of wide, staring eyes that climbed up his left forearm, each one paired with a single letter; the menacing, many-headed dragon that stretched itself along his right bicep, its shining scales imbued with something frozen and burning. The large set of black ink seals that sat on his shoulders like brands.

If the thing that had killed their mom had finally come back, then that meant, inevitably, their dad would be back, too.

And that was a mess that Sam could live without.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~Honestly I am free-wheeling this one. I just want to see where it takes me, if anywhere.........~~ **ETA:** That was a lie. I know exactly where this is going and it's going to be a Journey. Tags and summary (and probably rating, too, tbh) to be updated as things go.
> 
> I'm on Tumblr @amnesiawiife (two i's in wiife) if you're into that sort of thing.
> 
> Song this chapter's title comes from is 'Tea for One' by Zeppelin.


	2. House of the Rising Sons

The next afternoon, as Sam and Dean sat in the back room pouring through books about dreams and dream interpretation, the bell over the door of Rising Sun Magic Supply chimed. They both looked up and listened for voices in the store. When they heard nothing except for the muffled sound of footsteps, Sam held out his left arm and pressed his right index finger over the tattooed eye marked with a red letter ‘S.’

Dean watched as Sam’s eyes slid closed. The eye on his arm slid shut beneath his finger, too. A moment later, all three of his eyes opened again.

“It’s Marlene,” Sam said under his breath.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Dean hissed. “Again?”

Sam shrugged.

“It’s your turn,” he said, going back to his book. “I dealt with her last time.”

“Come on, at least rock, paper, scissors me for it.”

Sam sighed, but held up his hand and fist.

A few seconds and some furious rock-paper-scissoring later, Dean was standing up with a huff, flipping his copy of ‘Wandering Spirits: Chen Shiyuan’s Encyclopedia of Dreams’ shut, and pushing through the beaded curtain that separated the back room from the front counter.

“I swear you use magic to cheat at that,” he said to Sam over his shoulder.

“I don’t need to cheat, Dean,” Sam said, not looking up from his worn translation of ‘Oneirocritica.’ “You choose ‘scissors’ every time.”

Dean scowled and turned to scan the store in search of Marlene, the customer from hell.

At first glance, Rising Sun Magic Supply looked like little more than a cluttered pawn shop. The front windows were crammed with signs and displays that blocked out most of the natural light, and the interior lighting was dim. Long, deep shadows spilled through the maze of towering shelves, gathering here and there in its nooks and crannies. The layout appeared random, but it had actually been carefully set out to fit all of their stock while still somehow managing to meet ADA regulations. If you pulled up one of the many colorful rugs that covered the concrete floor, you could see the chalk markings from where Sam had measured it all with a yardstick. Well, you'd see the chalk markings, plus a few other things, too.

The stock itself was an eclectic mix of new age junk shamelessly ripping off a variety of cultures, a wide range of items (from tiny to furniture-sized) that may or may not have had actual magical value, and, here and there, if you knew where to look, everything necessary for a real honest-to-goodness spell. The really rare (and weird) stuff was kept in the back or under the locked glass counter, of course. And at the front, near the door, was a small display of trick card packs and vanishing coins, because people kept coming in thinking it was _that_ kind of magic store.

“Hey, may as well make a buck off their mistake,” Dean had said, setting out a stack of beginner magic sets with 'Party Tricks to Amaze!' printed across the front in enormous, shimmering letters.

Given that these at least had entertainment value - unlike a large portion of their stock which did absolutely nothing, such as the energy realignment pendants and the bottles of essential oils - Sam had restrained himself to a singular roll of the eyes and refrained from further complaint. It was the useless junk that made up the vast majority of their sales, anyway, and they had to keep the lights on somehow. Even if the customers that inevitably came with it were kind of annoying.

Case in point - Marlene.

Dean spotted the top of her enormous head of blonde curls bobbing along down the aisle filled with statues and miniatures (from porcelain angels, to stone buddhas, to brass chinthe, all the way down to carved jade zhulong). He hastened to catch up to her, lest she decide to pick up some poor glass fairy figurine and accidentally snap its delicate wings off. She’d broken sturdier items in her time as a regular, and never with much sympathy or remorse.

“Marlene!” Dean greeted with false cheer, rounding the corner just as her long, manicured claws reached out for something on the shelf before her. “I thought I sensed your aura harmonizing with the store’s vibrations!”

He could practically hear Sam faking a gag from the back room.

“Dean!” Marlene said, her firetruck red lips pursing in a wide, exaggerated ‘o.’ Then they stretched and split into a wide, toothy grin that a crocodile would have been envious of. “It’s so good to see you! And where’s that cute younger brother of yours?” She craned her neck as if Sam might be hiding somewhere nearby, no matter the difficulty his height would have posed in this endeavor.

“Escapably indisposed, I’m afraid,” Dean said.

“...Don’t you mean ‘inescapably?’” Marlene asked.

“Do I?” Dean asked. “Me and long words. We just don’t mix.” At Marlene’s confused squint, he hastened on, “Anyway, who needs that big lug? I’m sure I can help you out with whatever you need. What brings you in again so soon? Didn’t we see you just…”

“Last week,” Marlene said brightly. “Yes, the amethyst Sam recommended really helped center the energies in my car, just like he said it would. You pass along my deepest gratitude for me, won’t you?”

“Sure will,” Dean lied. “So what is it this time?” He did his very, very best to keep the irritation out of his tone.

“It’s my niece,” Marlene said. “Her birthday is coming up. She’s turning thirty, nearly out of her prime childbearing years, and she still isn’t married. I’m hoping to get something to help her attract a suitable husband before she’s all dried up. Can you suggest something for me? Sam's phone number maybe?”

Dean forced a loud laugh, mostly to stop himself from saying, ‘I suggest you mind your own friggin' business, lady.’

“You know, now that you mention it,” he said, “I think we’ve got the perfect thing. We’ve got a stock of specialty candles that summon fulfilling relationships into your life and drive out toxic ones with their smoke.”

Maybe Marlene’s niece could use it to get rid of Marlene. If not, well, at least they were nice smelling candles.

“That sounds perfect!” Marlene said. “Where are they?”

Dean led Marlene to the display of scented candles, pointed out the ones he was referring to, and then nodded and made polite humming noises as Marlene proceeded to describe in great detail each of the specific personality and aesthetic flaws that her niece possessed that were inhibiting her search for the perfect man. About the time Marlene said, “and she keeps her hair far too short,” right after, “she only spends time with female friends, never even trying to date,” Dean began to suspect that Marlene’s desire to see her niece bonded forever in heterosexual matrimonial bliss may have been doomed to failure, candles or no candles. 

After what felt like a literal age, Dean managed to coax Marlene into actually picking something out (she decided on three candles in total) and then ushered her to the checkout so he could ring her up. As he did so, Marlene eyed the carousel they had set out on the counter and filled with free brochures explaining the importance of vaccinating your children. Her face pinched with disdain.

“You know, I was just reading an article a friend sent me about rates of autism -” she began.

Nerves already severely tried by the day’s encounter, Dean raised his voice to drown hers out and loudly asked, “Have you seen the new sign we put up?”

Marlene’s mouth dropped open in surprise as he jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the large sign that read, ‘MAGICAL REMEDIES ARE NOT A SUBSTITUTE FOR SEEKING A LICENSED MEDICAL DOCTOR’S PROFESSIONAL ADVICE’ in block letters. Her lips flapped wordlessly for a moment, which gave her wrinkled face the sudden appearance of a rapidly deflating balloon. Dean cleared his throat.

“Sorry,” he said lamely. “We’re real passionate about the prevention of polio and the measles. It’s how our great grandpappy died.”

“...Polio or the measles?” Marlene asked, still looking taken aback.

“Both?” Dean tried. He glanced at the cash register. “Your total today is twenty-seven eighty-nine. Will that be cash or credit?”

There was a long pause. Then Marlene started rifling through her purse.

“Will you accept a check?” she asked.

Relieved that she hadn’t decided to argue any further, Dean said, “For you, Marlene? Anything.”

He made sure to slip a vaccine brochure into her bag. It was probably a lost cause, but hey. They had about a million of the things.

Once she was finally gone, Dean ducked through the beaded curtain into the back room and found Sam watching him with an amused glint in his eye.

“Don’t laugh,” Dean said. “It’ll be you next time.”

“Last week she told me that she only drinks bottled water because the fluoride in the tap water interferes with her ability to guard against malicious spiritual influences,” Sam said.

“You know, sometimes I want to tell her the truth about real ‘malicious spiritual influences’ just to see what she does next,” Dean said, retaking his seat.

“Nah, she’d probably just start blaming everything on demons,” Sam said. “Like those Christian mom advocacy groups who say hair metal is the work of the devil.”

Dean thought about that for a minute.

“Ladyheart was pretty bad,” he allowed.

“Shut up,” Sam said. “We’re not having this argument again.”

Dean shrugged and reopened ‘Wandering Spirits: Chen Shiyuan’s Encyclopedia of Dreams.’

“You find anything yet?” he asked.

“Well,” Sam said, “according to Artemidorus, dreaming about a family member or loved one dying in a fire might actually mean that _I’m_ about to die. The fire is supposed to symbolize your emotional suffering as a result of the loss.”

“Wait, that’s actually in there?” Dean asked, leaning over the table to look. “Dude, that’s so specific. What the hell?”

“Yeah, well, later on he says that if you dream about having thick eyebrows, it means good fortune is coming your way.”

“You’re making that up,” Dean said, making a grab for the book. “Let me see.”

Sam passed him the volume and Dean skimmed the relevant passage.

“Huh,” he said. “The ancient Greeks just had, like, no hobbies, I guess.”

“Give that back,” Sam said, reclaiming it. “What about you? Anything helpful?”

“Nah,” Dean said. “It says here that the _po_ -soul entering the liver is what causes dreams. Maybe you need to lay off the alcohol before bed.”

“That’s you, Dean.”

Dean flipped the book shut again and slumped back in his chair.

“Maybe we should call Dad,” he said, then immediately winced as he heard the words leave his mouth.

Like clockwork, Sam scoffed.

“Are you serious?” he asked. “You want to call Dad?”

“I just think,” Dean said carefully, “that if this has something to do with the thing that killed Mom, he would want us to call.” At Sam’s derisive snort, he insisted, “He’d want to know about it, Sam. He would.”

“Yeah, but does that mean we have to tell him?” Sam asked. “He’s just going to blame this whole thing on me and my witchcraft and then tell me all my problems will be solved the minute I stop cavorting with Satan under the full moon with the other hysterical nudists.”

“But if it does have something to do with the thing that killed Mom…” Dean began. “He might know something about it. I don’t know, maybe we can help him finally put an end to all of this. Then he can come home for good.”

“You really believe that?” Sam asked. “You seriously think that’s going to happen, ever?”

“Sammy, come on.”

“No, Dean, get real, okay?” Sam said snidely. “It’s never going to be over for Dad. He’s going to keep hunting this thing until the day it kills him, with or without us, and he’s made it pretty clear that he doesn’t want it to be with us.”

Dean stared up at the ceiling, not answering, brows furrowed into a tight knot.

“He’d want to know,” he repeated.

Sam sighed.

“At least wait until we know more,” he said. “If we call him out here just for it to turn out to be a bad dream, he’ll be pissed.”

Dean shifted indecisively, then finally let out a breath of acceptance.

“Yeah,” he said. “Fine. You’re right. We’ll wait and see.” He leaned forward on his elbows on the back room table. “Tell me more about this guy’s dream interpretations. What’s it mean if I dream about losing my eyebrows?”

“Instant death.”

“No, it doesn’t. Does it? Let me look at that again. Sam. Sammy! Give it! _Ow!_ I’m telling Missouri you bit me!”

“Not if I tell her you elbowed me in the mouth first.”

“ _Sam!_ ”

][

Sam and Dean arrived at Missouri's place early that evening, as usual. Dean liked to help Missouri cook, had liked it ever since he was tall enough to reach the stove. It was almost ritual for them at this point, Dean seamlessly sliding up to her to help chop or peel or stir whatever she was making. That day, however, she took one look at him as he entered the kitchen and made a face.

“Out,” she said imperiously. “You are all kinds of mixed up right now and I do not want it in my kitchen.”

“Missouri,” Dean pleaded, sounding betrayed.

“Don't ‘Missouri’ me,” she said. “You know my rules. No magic with -”

“- clouded intent,” Dean finished with a grumble. “It's cooking, not magic.”

“You keep telling yourself that. But do it in the hall.”

Dean hovered unhappily in the threshold. He glanced over his shoulder at Sam, only to find his brother grinning into his sleeve. He always seemed inordinately pleased to watch Dean being scolded. Dean glared until Sam schooled his expression.

“Besides,” Missouri said, pressing a button on the oven and wiping her hands on a towel, “there's nothing for you to do. The roast's been in the crock pot since noon and I just put the potatoes in. It'll all be done by the time the others get here.”

Her expression softened as she turned to give Dean a thorough once over, taking in the miserable slant to his mouth and the way Sam had positioned himself a few feet back, like an animal prepared to run at the first sign of danger.

“What's gotten into you two?” she asked.

Sam and Dean exchanged glances.

“We want you to take a look at Sam,” Dean said. “It might be nothing, but just in case.”

“Just in case of what?” Missouri asked.

“I had a weird dream,” Sam said.

Missouri's gaze turned sharp. She examined Sam more closely, looking for and seeing what, neither of them could tell.

“Another one?” she asked.

“Not like that,” Sam said quickly. “It was different.”

“Hm,” Missouri said. She nodded thoughtfully. “I'll take a look after dinner.” Then she smiled. “Whatever it is, we'll sort it out. We always do, don't we?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Dean agreed. Already he felt a little more relaxed.

“I wasn’t joking about the cooking, though,” Missouri said. “Go make yourselves useful and set the table. For seven. James and Tess are coming with the little one.”

They made simultaneous noises of acknowledgement and retreated back into the hall, toward the dining room, past the framed photographs hanging on the wall. Sam paused to examine one from his high school graduation.

He'd hit his growth spurt just the summer before and had still been getting used to his height. In the picture, he was hunched over somewhat awkwardly to get closer to Missouri, who had her arm wrapped tightly around his waist. Dean was at his other side, looking smug, probably because Dede was watching. This had been about the time Sam and Dean had both decided they were going to marry Dede, without ever consulting her or each other. James was next to Dean, looking stern, probably because Dean looked smug.

Dede had taken the photo, Sam remembered.

“Let's get one of you with the family, Sam,” she'd said, shuffling the four of them closer together.

John, of course, was nowhere to be seen.

Sam was still a little annoyed that Dean had wanted to call him about the dream. As if Sam hadn’t put considerable effort into keeping as much of his life a secret from their dad as possible. He hadn’t been there, not for any of it. He didn’t have the right to judge Sam for his decisions, even the bad ones. So what if this had something to do with their mom’s death? Sam had never met her. He barely knew their dad. As far as he was concerned, the only family he needed to involve in this had been there on that hot June day four years ago, watching as Sam accepted his diploma.

“Look at you in your stupid cap and gown,” Dean said suddenly from Sam's shoulder. “You were such a dork.”

“Whatever,” Sam said, rolling his eyes. “At least I got to walk at my graduation.”

Dean had been banned from his after orchestrating the unofficial senior prank. He'd broken into the school after hours and plastered the hallways with photos of the vice principal kissing a woman who was definitely not his wife. There hadn't been enough evidence to charge Dean with any crime, but everyone had agreed it was for the best for Dean to just take his diploma and go all the same.

“Completely worth it,” Dean sighed happily. “I can still remember the look on Vice Principal Buttkiss's face. Beautiful.”

(That the same Vice Principal Beaukiss would subsequently make it his mission to turn then-freshman Sam's high school career into a living hell had never seemed to occur to Dean. Sam hadn’t bothered to clue him in.)

They busied themselves with setting the table as instructed until James, Tess, and Patience arrived. Patience let out a shriek of joy when she saw them through the entrance way and barely let Tess finish removing her shoes before she was hurtling herself into the dining room and throwing herself at Dean’s knees.

“Whoa there, kiddo,” Dean said, setting his handful of silverware down in a pile on the table so he could hoist the four year old up into his arms. “What’s got you so excited?”

“I haven’t seen you in forever!” Patience squealed. She threw her arms around his neck.

“You got a screw loose?” Dean asked. “I just saw you at your ballet recital two weeks ago.”

“That’s forever!” Patience said.

“It is when you’re four years old,” Tess said, joining them.

“If it isn’t the most beautiful woman in the world,” Dean greeted her. “Have you realized you’re too good for James yet?”

“Dean, quit flirting with my wife,” James said. “Hey, Sam. Have you realized you’re too good for Dean yet?”

Sam raised his hand in a half-wave.

“James, quit flirting with my brother,” Dean said. “Not unless you plan to finally make an honest man out of him.”

Patience giggled and hid her face in his shoulder.

“Please,” James said. “As if I want to be any more related to you than I already am.”

He said it just in time for Missouri to overhear as she entered, carrying the salad.

“James!” she snapped. “What did I just hear come out of your mouth?”

Sam and Dean shared a grin. They both loved watching James being scolded.

Dede arrived not long after with a bottle of wine and immediately dove into a funny story about a client. As the food was trotted out, they all settled in around the dinner table, Dean sitting close to Patience so he could listen to her rambling stories about preschool, with Sam on his other side, engaged deep in a debate with Dede about the relative value of quartz as a focusing crystal in spellwork.

“The problem is that it’s too general a stone for most complex magic,” Dede was saying. “It’s definitely versatile, but only at the sacrifice of precision.”

“But if you had enough power…”

“I mean, theoretically if you had enough power it wouldn’t matter what kind of…”

“Now those two,” Dean said to Patience, pointing at them, “are nerds. You do not want to be a nerd. Got it?”

Patience gave him a serious nod.

“Um, excuse me, Dean Winchester,” James said, pushing some more salad onto Patience’s plate. “I would very much like for my daughter to be a nerd. Patience is going to an ivy league university someday.”

“You would say that, poindexter.”

“And when did you decide on our daughter’s college plans?” Tess asked. “Last I checked, she couldn’t even read yet.”

“When he was sixteen years old, flipping through a Ralph Lauren catalogue, ogling the model families in their matching polos,” Dean said. “You know, when _I_ was sixteen, I was flipping through -”

“Dean!” Sam and Dede both said at the same time, breaking off their conversation.

“Dean!” Patience repeated. “Dean! Dean!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean said, making a zipping motion with his fingers across his mouth.

“What about you, Patience?” Sam asked. “What do you want to do when you grow up?”

“Ummmm,” Patience said.

“Say doctor,” James whispered. “Say doctor.”

“Pro-wrestler, Patience,” Dean whispered. “Say pro-wrestler.”

Patience threw her arms up in the air and declared, “I’m gonna do what grandma does!”

“That’s my girl,” Missouri said proudly.

“And what is it you think your grandma does exactly?” James asked.

“Grants wishes,” Patience said matter-of-factly.

The table resounded with laughter.

“If only,” Missouri said. “It would certainly make my life simpler. Although not even that could help some of my clients. Lord have mercy.”

“On a related note,” Sam said, “Marlene came in again today. Second time in as many weeks.”

The laughter turned to groans.

“If anyone ever needed a therapist more than a psychic, it’s that woman,” Missouri said. “I’m half-tempted to tell her not to bother when she comes in for a reading. She never takes good advice.”

“Sometimes people don’t really want advice, even when they ask for it,” Dede said reasonably. “They just want to feel seen.”

“Well, I wish we saw less of her,” Sam said.

Dede gave him a disapproving frown, but even she couldn’t seem to work up more than a token defense for Marlene.

“I haven’t seen her in a couple of months myself, though,” Missouri said. “I guess something else caught her attention.” Her eyes twinkled and she winked at Sam.

“Urgh,” Sam said with great feeling.

“She’s good business, though,” Dean said. “Can’t really afford to tell her to beat it.”

“You guys aren’t having money trouble, are you?” Tess asked with a hint of worry. “I know the convention in Kansas City didn’t draw in as much traffic this year. Steven was complaining to me about it the other day.”

“You talk to Steven?” James asked. “Really? That kook?”

“Honey, everyone talks to Steven,” Tess said. “The only alternative is to never leave the house. He’s everywhere.”

“Nah, we aren’t doing too bad,” Dean said. “But Dad ran into a bit of trouble in Albuquerque last month and I had to wire him some money. Cut into our savings a little, that’s all.”

An awkward silence fell over the table.

Sam stared down at his plate and pushed a piece of roast through a dollop of sauce with his fork. If there was anyone in the world who disliked hearing about John more than Sam did, it was Missouri Moseley.

“You’re still sending him money?” she asked, one eyebrow raised.

“Here we go,” Sam said under his breath.

“Not a lot,” Dean said defensively. “Just a few hundred every now and again.”

“A few hundred,” Missouri repeated. “Every now and again.”

Dede cleared her throat. Tess took a long drink of wine. James became suddenly fascinated with his napkin’s position in his lap.

“Dean,” Missouri said tightly, “if your store was burning down with Sam inside of it, that man would not spit to put it out, and you are sending him the hard earned money they bring in?”

“Can we not?” Sam asked as Dean sat up straight in his seat next to him, bristling.

“Lay off, Missouri,” Dean said. “You know as well as I do he’d do anything for us. Me _and_ Sam.”

“Anything except call or write or visit, you mean,” Missouri said.

“He’d come if it really mattered,” Dean said.

“Every day matters,” she said. “And he’s missed most of them.”

“Can we not?” Sam said again, louder this time. “Please?”

Dean and Missouri held gazes for a long, tense moment, and then both of them looked away. Missouri was shaking her head, lips pursed. Dean stared blankly at the wall over her shoulder.

“Patience, honey, why don’t you tell us about the trip you took to the zoo last weekend?” Tess said, swooping in to break the tension like an angel descending from on high.

Patience eagerly rose to the occasion, starting on a long, vivid description of the otters she had seen. Eventually, with the help of James using his arm to imitate an elephant’s trunk, the easy mood returned.

But the moment was forgiven, not forgotten.

][

After dinner was finished, Dean and James cleared the dishes from the table while Dede and Tess played a clapping game with Patience. Missouri enlisted Sam's help in packing up a portion of leftovers for everyone to take home. 

When they were done with that, she turned to him and said, “Let’s take a look at you, then. Come with me to the reading room.”

Dean looked up from the plate he was scrubbing and made to set it down and follow.

“You stay right there,” Missouri told him. “I don’t need you hovering pointlessly while I’m trying to concentrate.”

“But -”

“It’ll only be a few minutes,” she said. “He’ll tell you all about it later.” Dean still looked unhappy. “Will it help if I promise not to break your little brother? Honestly, it’s like you don’t even trust me.”

“Okay, okay, I got it,” Dean relented. “Sorry, Missouri.”

But he still waited until they had left the room to resume the washing, eyes following them warily until they’d disappeared from view.

“I wish you two wouldn’t fight,” Sam said to Missouri as she led him to her reading room.

“I know,” Missouri sighed. “I wish we didn’t fight, either. I just care too much about you boys to keep my mouth shut.” She shook her head. “My two Winchesters.”

She smiled up at Sam, a little sadly. Sam smiled back down.

“Alright, take a seat,” Missouri said. “Get comfortable. I want to get a nice clear picture of what’s going on inside your head.”

Sam hesitated.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. I know you don’t like reading me since…”

“Sit down, Sam,” Missouri said sternly.

Sam sat. He took a deep breath as Missouri sank down next to him on the small couch, trying to clear his head as best as he could.

“There you go,” she said. “Just like that. Good job. You always were good at this part.”

A small flutter of pride bloomed in Sam, but he pushed it down, trying to maintain an even blankness. They sat like that for a few long moments, sinking into a deep, quiet calmness together, before Missouri finally reached up and put her hands on either side of Sam’s face.

Her eyes slipped shut.

Sam focused on his breathing, on the feeling of her palms against his skin, warm and soft. His own eyes slowly closed as they fell into harmony with one another. Missouri made a small, thoughtful humming sound, but Sam could barely hear it.

Several minutes or more passed - it was hard to keep track of exactly how much time was slipping by when they were in a meditative state - before Missouri finally sighed and her hands fell away from Sam’s face. When Sam opened his eyes, she was frowning.

“What is it?” he asked.

“There’s a darkness in you, Sam,” she said. “There always has been, though. I can’t tell if it’s something supernatural going on or…”

“Or if it’s just me,” Sam said bitterly.

“Now don’t do that,” Missouri said, reaching out to clasp his hand. “Don’t get down on yourself. How many times do I have to tell you? We’re all given options in life. Our opportunities are not who we are. Only the choices we make determine that.”

Sam nodded, but it didn’t quite rid him of the unsettled feeling in his gut.

“Missouri…” he began. “What if something happens? What if Dean gets hurt, and it’s my fault, because of something I did or didn't do?”

“Oh, Sam,” Missouri said. “Nothing's going to happen to your brother.”

“You know that for sure?” Sam asked. “You’ve seen it?”

“No, sweetpea,” Missouri said. “I know it because I know you. You're not going to let anything happen to him. And he's not going to let anything happen to you. It doesn’t take a psychic to see what’s written plain as day. Now come on. Your brother’s worried enough about you that he hasn’t even asked about dessert. Let’s set him straight.”

Sam huffed a soft laugh, and followed her back toward the kitchen.

][

“So what now?” Dean asked on the drive home, tapping out a short, anxious rhythm on the dashboard of Sam’s old pickup truck. “If Missouri can’t sense anything, maybe we’re in the clear?”

“No, that’s not what she said,” Sam said. “She didn’t rule anything out. She just couldn’t tell if I was any more or less fucked up than I usually am. That’s all.”

Silence reigned for a short while, the streetlights slipping in and out of the truck’s cab as they went past the only thing that punctuated their stillness.

“So we’re back to square one,” Dean finally concluded. “Thick eyebrows and _po_ -souls or whatever.”

“I guess we just have to wait and see,” Sam said. “Maybe it was just one dream. Maybe we’re getting worked up about nothing.”

He didn’t sound like he really believed it, though, which was fine by Dean, because he didn’t really believe it, either.

Sam’s hands tightened around the steering wheel, then relaxed again.

After a long beat of silence, he said, “If this isn’t a one-off...maybe we can do a dowsing ritual. See what we can pick up from my bedroom.”

“There’s that African Dream Root stuff, too,” Dean said. “Cassandra was talking about it in Kansas City, remember? We could try that.”

Sam nodded.

Then, after a pause, he said, “You know she only calls herself that so she can play the spiritual victim card whenever anyone disagrees with her prophecies, right?”

Dean scoffed.

“Obviously,” he said. “But hey. Game respects game.”

Sam gave him a wry smile that told Dean everything was going to be just fine.

][

That night, however, Sam dreamt once more of an all-consuming fire.

As he tossed and turned in the tangle of his sweat-soaked sheets, somewhere in a motel room far, far away, John Winchester was pouring over a mosaic of signs. Sleep had eluded him for some time.

And somewhere else, both further away and, simultaneously, much too close for comfort, a yellow-eyed demon was watching the last few pieces of an elaborate puzzle slide carefully into place. Down in the deepest depths of Hell, the Cage began to rattle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're curious, Artemidorus says that dreaming about not having eyebrows is a sign of "impending misery."
> 
> *finds a character who dies in the first five minutes of the only episode she ever appears in* Hmmmm... you are now beloved to me.
> 
> Chapter title is a reference to 'House of the Rising Sun' by the Animals. As is the title title and the name of their store. I realized suddenly that this is definitely a pun that they made on the show but then I had a second realization which is that I don't care.


	3. Burn the Witch

**THEN**

Dean didn't do witchcraft. Not like Sam.

Sam was a natural, not at all like Dean, that was one thing. A real wunderkind. He took to magic like a fish to water, which was a good enough analogy, because it had been about as common as oxygen in their childhood. They spent their days scattered across a kaleidoscope of houses, going wherever there was someone who could watch them for an afternoon or evening. ‘Someone' was usually a psychic of some flavor. Almost everybody Sam and Dean knew growing up did magic, even if it was just a little bit.

In general, Dean's memories of those first few years after their dad had left them with Missouri were a vague jumble, broken apart and swallowed up by the confusion of his childish perspective and the passage of time. He remembered that James had babysat them a lot - always with some resentment - but when neither he nor Missouri had time, the task had fallen to whoever was available. He remembered a dozen different living rooms, a dozen different kitchens, some of them now lost or unrecognizable. 

Each one was like a puzzle piece that fit together to form a tangle of magic and secret knowledge - here was Madam's stuffy old library, where they had learned it was better not to draw sigils they didn't understand, even just in crayon; there was Steven's living room with its hundred clocks all ticking out a different time, where they learned how to find out if someone was running late or if they'd been stood up; here was Zara and Ted's garden, where they learned which plants were useful, which ones were dangerous, and which ones just smelled and looked nice. Then always, without fail, it was back to Missouri's house, where she always knew what you were guilty of the second before you actually did it.

Going to elementary school, bastion of the normal, had been, for Dean, weirder than anything else he saw or heard growing up. The other kids all thought magic was made up, and you got in trouble for fighting them for saying so. It was like being told up was down, right was left, and don’t you dare argue back about it, even if you know they’re wrong. Sam's early memories must have been similar. But Sam's memories lacked something that Dean's didn't - their mom, their dad, and the strange, hazy days before any of them had known the truth.

Sam had also never known the uncertainty of that period right after their dad first left, or the hope, confusion, and disappointment that flared each time he returned. In those days, their dad had come around much more often. Every couple of months, he would appear again and take custody of his children for a few days, even if it was just to a cheap motel where John would spend long hours making phone calls and pouring over books and newspapers, scribbling in his notebook the whole time. Then some new lead would snatch him up in its jaws and Sam and Dean were back off to Missouri's again.

Looking back on it now, Dean thought that every single one of those times, their dad had really meant to stay, or to keep them, or something. It was like he thought - finally, he knew enough to keep them safe. But then something new would appear and convince him that he was wrong. The world always had fresh horrors in it. Eventually, John had just accepted that fact.

“I have an important job to do,” John would always tell Dean when he left. “There are things out there that other people don't understand. Bad things. One of them hurt your mom, and I have to stop it from hurting anyone else. Do you understand?”

And Dean did understand. He had been there that night. He'd seen - he didn't know what he'd seen. All he could remember now was what he'd felt. So he never complained, never begged his dad to stay even though he wanted to, because he knew his dad was right. John had an important job to do.

That was okay. Dean had one, too. He had to look after Sam.

As a child, barely more than a toddler himself, there wasn't much he could take control of in that regard. He had to rely on Missouri for everything they needed. She let Dean help out, especially with the easy tasks - this is how you mix his formula, this is how you change his diaper, this is how you burp him after he eats - but there was no getting around the fact of their dependence on her. Still, Dean was resolved that he would watch over Sam. He would master these tasks to the highest possible degree, and then some. Dean would do whatever necessary to keep his little brother safe.

That was the impulse, the need that led to the first and last time Dean purposely, intentionally cast magic.

It had been on one of those rare occasions - getting rarer and rarer as the years went by - that their dad was back. It was one of the last times he ever actually took them from Missouri's home, and they spent it someplace up in Nebraska, a few hours out of Lawrence. Dean was seven; Sam, three.

They were in another motel room. John had gone out to use the payphone and Dean had climbed up on the chair to watch him through the window, trying to figure out if this meant their dad had caught another job, if he was leaving again. Dean didn't know how to read lips, but he was trying to work out a method on the fly.

“Dean,” Sam had called from somewhere behind him. “It broke.”

He was on the floor, playing with some stupid toy. Dean couldn't remember what now - a truck of some kind. The kid had always had a thing about trucks. Dean hadn't looked back to see what the matter was, though, just shushed him.

“Dean,” Sam tried again a few seconds later. “Dean.”

“Just give me a minute, Sam,” Dean had snapped. “I'm trying to watch -”

But then suddenly Sam was crying. Dean whirled around to see what the matter was and found Sam sitting with his hand held up, blood running down his small, pudgy palm.

“What happened?” he asked, scrambling to his brother's side.

Sam said nothing, only wailed harder. On the floor was the toy - definitely a truck - with one of its metal doors twisted at an odd angle. It had nearly snapped off, leaving a jagged edge which must have caught the fat of Sam’s hand.

“It’s okay,” Dean said. “Shh, shh, Sammy. It’s not deep. You’re okay.”

Sam kept crying.

Dean looked helplessly around. He didn’t know where their dad kept the first aid kit the way he knew where it was at Missouri’s place (in the hall closet) and he knew he wasn’t supposed to go through their dad’s things. At a loss for what else to do, Dean suddenly remembered something Ted had shown him last summer, when Dean had pricked himself on a bramble in the yard. He didn’t know if it would work - Dean had never had a chance to try it before - but Sam was in pain. That was unacceptable. So it was worth a shot.

“Just a simple spell,” Ted had explained, “to stop small wounds from stinging. Dead useful when you get as many paper cuts as Zara does. All it takes is a lot of intent, a little innate talent, and a couple of simple words.” Then he winked.

Dean had taken special care to remember those words. He was glad that he had.

He reached out and took his brother’s hand, wiping away some of the blood with his thumb.

“Calli, calli, calli,” he muttered, concentrating on the cut, pouring all the soothing feelings he could into the phrase. “Smedi sangi calli.”

As Dean spoke, Sam’s tears dried up. He sniffled loudly, but the pinched expression began to fade from his ruddy face. Dean smiled.

“There,” he said. “All better.”

Suddenly, a large hand was yanking him away.

“What did you just do?” John demanded, face contorted with fury. “Who taught you that?”

Dean gaped up at him. He hadn’t even heard John come back in.

“I - I don’t know!” he stuttered. “It was just - I didn’t -!”

“Never do that again!” John ordered. “Never! Do you understand? Witchcraft is dangerous, Dean. You start that, you’re gonna wind up dead. Or worse.”

Still numb with shock, Dean had merely nodded in obedience.

“Promise me, Dean,” his dad said, both his voice and his grip on Dean’s shoulder like steel.

And Dean had whispered back, "I promise."

He’d always known that his dad and Missouri fought sometimes, no matter how hard they tried to hide it from him, but the fight they had after that day was the only time he ever heard them yelling. Dean watched from the backseat of the Impala as John and Missouri had it out on the front steps of her house, words indistinct but the matching looks of fury on their faces clear as day.

“What’s going on?” Sam asked, trying to climb into Dean’s lap so that he could see what was happening. “What are they saying?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean said, pushing Sam away. “Everything’s fine.”

He tried to bury the dreadful feeling in his stomach that was telling him it wasn’t - that it was all ruined, again, and this time it was Dean’s fault.

They stayed with their dad for a long time after that. Nearly a full month. They hopped from motel to motel, traveling around the Midwest, following John’s invisible, unspoken plan. They never stayed anywhere for long. Everywhere they went, silence and fear followed after. Most days, Dean couldn’t work out which of his feelings was greater - his relief that he and Sam were with their dad again, or his worry about what was going to happen next. It was like living on the edge of a knife.

It hadn’t lasted, though. It couldn’t. One night their dad had come back to the room, his shirt and pants drenched in blood. There was a look in his eyes - one Dean didn’t recognize. John didn’t say a word when he found Dean sitting up and waiting for him, Sam fast asleep in front of the television. Instead, he sank down at the rickety wooden table with a bottle of Jack, popped the cap, and took a long drink. He hadn’t even bothered to change out of his dirtied clothes.

He was shaking, Dean noticed. There was a tremor in his hands, almost imperceptible, except for the quavering in the bottle’s liquid. The realization frightened Dean. Before that, whatever his dad had been, he’d been untouchable.

But John was there. He had come back. And Sam was safe, unaware, wrapped up in some dream about cartoons or animals that could talk or trucks - always with the trucks. John had done his job, and Dean had done his.

So Dean said, “It’s okay, Dad. It’s going to be okay.”

John had just looked at him. Then he closed his eyes like a man resigned.

The next day they were back at Missouri’s.

But Dean never did magic after that. He never broke his promise. Not on purpose, anyway. The cooking was another thing entirely, no matter what Sam or Missouri or anyone else tried to say about it.

][

**NOW**

It had been two weeks since Sam’s dreams had started, and they hadn’t let up. Every night he went to bed, only to be tormented by the same vision - his brother pinned to the ceiling, blood dripping from a wound in his stomach, and then - fire. When he woke up in the early hours one morning, jolted awake by his fifteenth consecutive nightmare, Sam wasn’t surprised at all to find Dean already in the kitchen awake and cooking. They were both starting to feel the strain.

He was, however, a little startled by the sheer quantity of food that Dean had made.

“Uh,” he said, stopping in the doorway to survey the array of platters cluttering their small table. “Stress baking, Dean? Really?”

“Shaddup,” Dean said. “Or you can’t have any.”

Sam shut up. He picked a muffin up off the closest platter and took a bite. It was cranberry and it tasted a little bit like heaven.

“How long have you been doing this?” Sam asked. “Did you sleep at all?”

“A little,” Dean said, which probably meant he’d nodded off for a few minutes while waiting for something to finish baking. Currently, he was pouring the contents of a mixing bowl into a pie crust.

“What’s that?” Sam asked.

“Quiche.”

Sam took another bite of muffin.

“So the dowsing ritual failed,” Dean said once he’d put the quiche in the oven and had started on the dishes. “And the smudging.”

Sam rolled up his sleeves and picked up a clean washcloth to help with the drying. There was evidence in the kitchen laundry basket to suggest that Dean had already done several rounds of dishes.

“It was kind of a long shot,” he said. “If these dreams are premonitions of some kind, there’s no reason to think they’d leave a trace in my room before anything actually happens there.”

“Who says they’re premonitions?” Dean asked. “You’ve never shown any kind of sign of clairvoyance before in your life. And you’ve done just about everything else.”

“What else could it be?” Sam asked.

Dean focused on rinsing out a set of measuring cups.

“Maybe it’s time to think about taking you to see a shrink,” he said at last, not looking up.

“Excuse me?”

“Look, we didn’t exactly have a normal childhood,” Dean said, lifting his gaze from the sink. “It probably isn’t a stretch to say that we’re both a bit, you know, screwey upstairs. Maybe you just finally reached a tipping point.”

Sam stared at him, flabbergasted.

“Okay, Dr. Phil,” he scoffed. “First of all, if either of us was going to turn into a basket case, it would be you, not me. You repress, like, everything.”

“I do not!”

“Second of all,” Sam went on, ignoring him. “Why would it be starting now of all times? Nothing’s changed. The most stressful thing that’s happened to me in the last year is a toss-up between walking in on you with that guy from the farmer’s market or having Marlene ask me if I was single. Neither of those things was exactly world-shattering.”

“No, but you’d think so based on your reaction,” Dean said.

“It was mentally scarring!” Sam said. “Both times! Just not, you know - give-me-actual-trauma scarring. And besides.” He hesitated. “Why would I dream about that? About how Mom died?”

“What do you mean?” Dean asked.

“I don’t remember it, Dean,” Sam said. “Not at all. I know that you do, but to me it’s always just been...a story. A scary story, sure, but nothing more than that.”

Dean frowned, but said nothing in response.

“It’s way more likely that this is a supernatural problem, don’t you think?” Sam said. “You said it yourself, didn't you? When in our lives has it ever paid off to treat something like this as normal?”

“I guess,” Dean allowed.

“Maybe you should clear out for a little while,” Sam suggested.

“What?” Dean asked, twisting to face Sam fully. “What are you talking about?”

“Just until this blows over,” Sam clarified. “You could go meet up with Dad, if you want. See what he has to say. Maybe he has an idea what this could be. And if it is a premonition...if you’re not here, it can’t happen.”

“What, so I’m supposed to leave you to face this on your own?” Dean asked. “There is no way in hell I’m doing that, Sammy.”

“Dean,” Sam said, plaintive.

“You and me, we don’t split up,” Dean said firmly. “We don’t do anything alone. No matter how bad it gets, we’ve always got each other. That’s the way it’s always been, and that’s the way it’s always going to be. It’s gonna take a lot more than some bad dreams to scare me off.”

“You’re such an idiot,” Sam said. But there was no point in arguing once Dean had made up his mind. “Fine. What do we try next? African Dream Root?”

“Sure,” Dean said. “I’ll give ol’ Cass a call, see if she can hook us up. In the meantime, how about we head over to Steven’s place? He got most of Madam’s books after she passed, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, it was first come, first serve,” Sam said. “And Steven’s always first.”

“The Mysterious Mr. Fortinsky,” Dean said. “Right on time.”

][

Steven Fortinsky, self-proclaimed Wizard of Time, lived in an old converted funeral parlor out near the edge of town. He said he liked being close to dead people because it was quieter there. It was the most normal thing he had ever said to either Sam or Dean, and it almost made sense in a weird sort of psychic way, except that Steven had never once shown any penchant for speaking to the dead.

“You’ve been touched by time,” he said when he answered the door, peering up at Dean from behind thick glasses. “Not yet, but you will be.”

“Yeah, Steve, that’s what you say whenever you see me,” Dean said. “Still hasn’t happened yet.” He held up a tupperware container and rattled it. “Cookies?”

“Oatmeal raisin?” Steven asked.

“I know they’re your favorite.”

Steven hummed happily as he accepted the box, opening the lid and wiggling his fingers over it as he made his selection.

“What brings you boys by?” he asked. “I haven’t seen you since…”

He squinted at them, like he was fishing for an answer. No one was really sure if Steven was actually the mixed up time traveler he acted like he was, or if he just had an uncanny knack for being both very punctual and very confused.

“Last month,” Sam helpfully provided. “September, 2005. It’s October, now. The 26th.”

“Right,” Steven said. “Yes.” He studied Sam, then added, with a note of criticism, “And you’re still abysmally stuck in the present, I see. You’re going to have a passing slip in the timeline on Wednesday and you won’t even notice that it’s happening. After everything I’ve taught you. How disappointing.” He tutted.

Sam frowned, feeling unfairly judged for something that wasn’t his fault and probably wasn’t even true.

“Okey-doke,” Dean said. “Anyway, we were hoping we could take a look at some of Madam’s old stuff, if you’ve still got it.”

“Yes, yes I do,” Steven said, stepping aside to admit them. “Come in. October, you said? It’s all up in the attic.”

Sam and Dean slipped off their shoes and followed Steven along the hallway, its walls lined with clocks of all kinds. There were digital clocks and analog clocks, antique carved clocks and the kinds of mercenary plastic clocks that hung in schools and prisons. Each one ticked away as part of a discordant cacophony, none of them set to the same time. In other rooms, chimes could be heard, distantly sounding out the hour (or _an_ hour, anyway). There was always at least one going off. Being in Steven’s house for too long was always an invitation for a headache.

He led them up the stairs to a spot near the back of the house where there was a trapdoor in the ceiling. There was a long, fraying cord hanging down from its handle. When Steven pulled it, the door dropped down, along with a ladder and a thick cloud of dust, suggesting that Steven himself hadn’t been up to the attic possibly since he’d put Madam’s things away.

“Go right ahead,” Steven said, munching on an oatmeal cookie. “Dean, when are you going to bring that nice friend of yours back around?”

“Friend?” Dean asked. “I don’t have any friends.” He considered that statement. “Man, that sounded really depressing. Sam, do we not have any friends?”

“Speak for yourself,” Sam said, climbing the ladder. “I have plenty of friends.”

“You do? Who are you friends with? Why do I not know any of your friends? Sam?”

But Sam, apparently not listening, had stopped halfway up into the attic, a curious look on his face.

“Uh, Steven,” he called down. “There’s...there’s nothing here.”

“There isn’t?” Steven asked. “That’s not possible. Let me see.”

Sam descended the ladder so that Steven could climb up past him. Steven adjusted his glasses, looking puzzled as he gazed around the attic. Just as Sam had said, there was nothing there.

“But that’s not right,” he mumbled to himself. “That’s not right at all. Where’s everything gone? Was I wrong about the date? October 2005...2005...What happens in 2005?”

Suddenly, his shoulders snapped back and he stared down at Sam and Dean with a look of dawning horror on his face.

“It’s 2005!” he shrieked.

They both started back a step in surprise.

“You, uh, you doing okay there, Mr. Fortinsky?” Dean asked warily.

“Out!” Steven yelled, scrambling back down the ladder. “Both of you get out of my house at once!”

Sam and Dean stumbled backward as Steven flapped his hands at them, shooing them down the hall.

“Calm down, Steven,” Sam said, raising his hands in self-defense. It was more likely that Steven would snap his own brittle, ancient finger bones than do any real damage by hitting them, but it was the principle of the matter. “What are you talking about? Is something going to happen?”

“Is something going to happen?” Steven barked. “Ha! _Ha!_ Sam Winchester is asking me if something is going to happen! Well, not in my house it’s not!”

He all but chased them back down down the stairs, toward the front door, and then out of it. They stumbled onto the front porch, perplexed and a little frightened.

“Did we do something wrong?” Dean asked. “Or...will we?”

“Whatever it is, we’re sorry,” Sam tried. “If you would just explain -”

“It’s too late for that!” Steven snapped. “Or it’s too early! It doesn’t matter. Don’t come back! Either of you! Not for anything, ever! Ever!”

With that, he slammed the door shut in their faces.

“Come on, man!” Dean shouted. “I brought you cookies!”

The door opened just a crack, and the tupperware container of cookies came flying out. It struck Dean in the chest. He fumbled to catch it as the door slammed closed again, leaving them standing in a silence that hung with heavy finality. 

Dean looked down at the box in his hands, then up at Sam.

“Well, that’s not a good sign,” he said.

“You think?” Sam asked.

][

They went straight to Missouri’s after that, but she couldn’t see anything more than she already had, and didn’t have any more advice to offer.

“Steven’s always been a bit of an odd bird, though,” was all she said. “It’s possible you’ll see him at the supermarket tomorrow and he’ll ask you why you’ve been such a stranger lately. Who can tell with that man?”

Unwilling to worry her further with the news that Sam’s dreams hadn’t gone away as they had maybe sort of intentionally led her to believe, Sam and Dean returned to the shop empty handed. Cassandra hadn’t had any African Dream Root conveniently in her possession, but she claimed to know a guy who knew a guy. The only problem was that it would be about a week before she could get a hold of the stuff. In the meantime, there didn’t seem to be anything else Sam and Dean could do but wait.

And so a few days passed.

The dreams continued. They had almost become a part of Sam’s normal life now, in a way his teenage nightmares never had. Those had always left him feeling dirty. These ones were frightening and disorienting and had seriously cut into his sleeping hours, but at least he still felt like himself when he woke up. He wasn’t that comforted by the knowledge that things could have been worse. But - they could have been worse.

He had given up on the dream divination books and turned to flipping through anything at all that might help. But most of the books in their possession were either about psychic abilities, methods for fortune telling, or introductory witchcraft guides, and none of them had anything useful to say on the subject. Madam - a woman who had been elderly even when the two of them were little - had always been the one with the detailed grimoires and tomes in her library, and Sam had made liberal use of these in the past. That Steven had not only snapped them all up for his private collection after she had died a few years ago - at the grand age of 109 - but then added insult to injury by losing them left a bitter taste in Sam’s mouth.

By rights, they should have gone to him. He wasn’t the only practicing witch in the area, but he was one of the best. Madam had always said so. She had doted on him, adored him in her quiet, patient way, and had always been delighted to see Sam and hear about his progress. There was a time when she’d even jokingly called Sam her apprentice.

Sam had ruined that, though. He could still remember the look of disappointment on her face after she’d heard what he’d almost done. It had been a look of pure grief. Madam had never fully trusted him again after that. When he came to look at her books, she never left him with them alone, not even for a moment. She’d become cold. Sam regretted a lot of things about that night when he was fourteen years old and had groped blindly for power without care for the price. He sometimes thought he regretted losing Madam’s approval the most.

At any rate, it meant they now had next to nothing in terms of research material. He made a few runs to local libraries and trawled the internet for anything that wasn’t complete garbage, but both of these efforts turned up fruitless. Artemidorus’s assertion that it was Sam himself that was in mortal peril remained the closest thing to an answer that he had come across, and it wasn't exactly enlightening or hope-inspiring.

Dean spent most of the time running the store while Sam researched. He was restless, though. Dean had always been the sort to prefer doing to thinking, and waiting impotently like this for something to happen grated at him. (Sam also suspected that his brother had a long-undiagnosed case of ADHD, but that was neither here nor there.) He bounced around the shop, inventing unnecessary projects and tasks that he would then fail to complete, all the while humming under his breath or making stupid sounds that drove Sam nearly to the brink of insanity.

One afternoon, Sam finally decided to take pity on both of them, and told Dean to get lost.

“Just go to the bar or something,” he said. “Get a beer. Find a girl. I don’t care. Just don’t do it here.”

“Wow,” Dean said, snapping another rubber band in Sam’s direction. It hit the cover of Sam’s book and dropped to the floor, landing among a dozen other spent rounds. “I’m feeling the love. I really am.”

“All your hovering is doing is making me want to strangle you myself,” Sam said. He closed the book and set it down. “Honestly. I promise I’ll be fine for one day.”

“Sam.”

“Dean.”

“Sam.”

“D-” Sam bit back a groan of annoyance. He dug his wallet out of his back pocket and extracted a crisp twenty. “Will it make a difference if I offer to pay you to go away?”

“Yes, yes it will,” Dean said, snatching the money up. “Alright, let me grab my jacket.”

He headed for the stairs leading up to the loft.

“Wait,” Sam said, stomach lurching.

Dean turned back in question.

“I just...think it’s better if you don’t go up there on your own,” Sam said. “Like you were in my - in my dream.”

“You almost said vision, didn’t you?”

Sam leveled him with a look.

“Okay, whatever,” Dean said. He plucked the keys to his bike off the hook by the door. “Have it your way. Twenty bucks is twenty bucks. I’ll feed your paranoia just this once. But if I catch a cold, it’s your fault.”

So saying, he gave Sam a cheeky salute and disappeared out the back door, into the alley separating Rising Sun Magic Supply from Dale’s Butcher Shop (a convenient arrangement).

Sam shook his head, picked up his book, and relocated to the front counter for the duration of the store’s operational hours.

Business was slow. It usually was, although it tended to pick up a bit in the weeks leading up to Halloween. They did more business in October than the rest of the year combined. Halloween had come and gone, however, and weekdays were still weekdays. After the last customer had cleared out, Sam began closing up shop. As he was counting out the register, he thought he heard footsteps in the loft overhead. He raised his head to listen, a little annoyed. He’d just got done telling Dean not to go up there alone, too.

Sam sighed and turned to climb the stairs after him, ready to tell his brother off.

And also:

“Hey, Dean, I just had the weirdest customer,” he called, flicking on the living room light. “She was, like, the spitting image of Tess.”

Abruptly, he drew up short.

Their apartment over the store was quiet and dark. There was no response from Dean, no sign that he was around. Sam struggled to remember if he’d heard Dean’s motorcycle in the alley, signaling his return, but found that he couldn’t.

“Dean?” he tentatively called down the hall.

There was no response.

Sam swallowed, heart leaping into his throat. A sense of deja vu swept over him, thick and unpleasant and wrong. The hallway leading down to their respective bedrooms seemed to stretch out before him into an impossibly long walk. Was it him or were the shadows there darker than they normally were, even at night?

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, dialing Dean’s number without a second thought.

It rang four times. Each second felt like an eternity.

Then: “Heeeeey, Sammy, what’s up?” Dean said as he answered. “Miss me already?”

“Dean, where are you?” Sam asked.

“At the bar,” Dean said cheerfully. “Making some friends! You know, what Steven said the other day really got me thinking -”

“Good,” Sam interrupted. “Stay there.”

There was a static-filled pause, and then Dean’s voice was serious as he asked, “What’s going on?”

Sam hung up.

He stood in the living room, rooted to the spot, uncertain of what to do next. Something might be in their home. Something that had wanted to hurt his brother, and possibly Sam as well. What could he do? He should turn around and go back down the stairs. Wait for Dean to inevitably rush home so that they could form some kind of plan.

Wait for Dean to come rushing toward the thing Sam knew wanted him dead.

Suddenly, there was a thumping sound in Sam’s room. Just once. A single, dull thud.

Sam pressed his finger to the eye on his left arm labeled with an ‘R’ and closed his eyes. The second sight slipped over his eyelids like an image from a screen, showing him his bedroom from the vantage point of the corresponding mark that he had carved into the corner of one wall.

There was nothing there.

But the eye had blind spots. Right under it, in the corner. Above it. On the ceiling.

Sam couldn’t be sure that his room was empty, not really, and he had just heard -

He took a tentative step forward. Then another. He ducked quickly into the kitchen, opened the cabinet, and pulled out a shaker of salt. That salt could be used to drive off evil spirits was one of the few things he’d ever bothered to retain from his dad’s impromptu hunting lessons, piecemeal though they had been. Carrying it in front of himself like a weapon, he proceeded again down the hallway toward his room.

Sam stopped in front of the closed door, heart hammering, head ringing. He took a deep, steadying breath, trying to push down the threatening panic, then pushed the door open and looked inside.

The room was empty.

Swallowing, Sam slowly looked up, dreading whatever he was about to find. 

But there was nothing there, either. The ceiling was just as bare as the rest of the room.

He turned on the light and shook himself, trying to rid himself of the cloying sense of deja vu. Nothing had happened. Nothing was amiss. There was no one here. Had he just imagined the sounds? Was it just his nerves and the lack of sleep playing with his mind? Dean was out at the bar, safely out of harm’s way, and everything in his room was exactly as he’d left it, down to the -

He stopped. There was something changed, actually. Something was lying on his bedspread. It was black and small, smaller even than Sam’s little finger. He strode forward to take a closer look, then froze.

It was a burnt match.

He quickly plucked it up, studying the shriveled splinter for any clue as to its origin, only to nearly drop it again when a voice suddenly called out to him from the doorway.

“Hey there, Sam,” it said. “I think it’s time we talked.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My new strategy for this fic is to write it as quickly as possible because I'd like it to be finished sometime in my life.
> 
> Chapter title comes from 'Burn the Witch' by Queens of the Stone Age, although I would be a little bit of a liar if I didn't admit that the line that was stuck in my head for most of writing it was actually 'I stand accused of being in league with Satan' from 'Burn the Witch' by Shawn James. Pick your poison.
> 
> I also updated the summary to better reflect the trajectory of the plot.
> 
> Yes, Castiel does eventually appear. LMFAO.


	4. Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap

For a bizarre moment, Sam thought he was having the weirdest nightmare of his life. That was the only explanation he could think of that would adequately explain what he was seeing. He nearly reached up and pinched himself as he stared at the figure standing in his bedroom doorway.

“ _Marlene?_ ” he said, flabbergasted.

And there she was, all blonde curls and lipstick and gaudy jewelry. But how had she gotten in here? Sam was sure he hadn’t seen her in the store that day and was equally certain he’d locked up.

“Actually,” Marlene said, “it hasn’t been Marlene for a while now.”

Her eyes flashed black. 

Sam sucked in a breath and stumbled backward a step. The strange sense of unreality that had gripped him the moment he’d seen her face went careening rapidly back into fear.

“What are you?” he asked.

“Your personalized wake-up call,” the thing wearing Marlene’s face said. “It’s a shame, actually. I was hoping to have a little chat with your brother before you showed up. Oh well. Maybe next time.”

“You leave my brother alone,” Sam ordered, almost on reflex.

“I’d like to see you make me.”

Sam glanced across his room toward his desk where he kept all his ritual supplies, including his athame, his ceremonial blade, and wished that it wasn’t so far away. His knowledge lay mostly in rituals and runic work, but at least if he’d had his athame, he would have had a real weapon as some form of self-defense. He felt suddenly stupid clutching the salt shaker, as if it would be of remotely any use against the thing in front of him. Maybe if he could keep it talking, distract it...make a dive across the bed...

He licked his lips nervously and refocused on Marlene. 

“What do you want?” he asked.

“Nothing much,” the thing said. “I’m just here to preheat the oven.”

With a flick of Marlene’s wrist, Sam went flying backward, up against the wall. The salt shaker dropped from his hand and spilled in a pool across the floor at his feet. His head banged up against the plaster and his ears began to ring as the air was nearly choked from his lungs by the force of the strike. He struggled to break free, but there were invisible bonds keeping him paralyzed in place several inches above the floor. He was stuck.

“You’re a demon,” he realized, gritting the word out from between his teeth. “You’re possessing her.”

“Bit slow on the uptake, aren’t we?” the demon said. It began stepping slowly toward him. “Someone’s been skipping Daddy’s lessons. Or maybe it’s the other way around. Missed a couple birthdays, has he?” 

“Shut up,” Sam snapped.

“Touchy,” the demon said. It held out Marlene’s hand, examining the long, painted nails with a look of amusement. “I’ll admit I had fun wearing this meatsuit for a while. But even demons can only take so much garbage, you know? I’m ready to ditch this bitch once and for all.”

It threw Sam a nasty smirk.

“What do you want from me?” Sam asked again. “If this is about the ritual, I never finished -”

“That little demon pact you almost made way back when?” the demon interrupted, voice mocking. “It's not. But you should know what a riot we all thought that one was. You had us all nearly in stitches downstairs. It’s a shame Dean stopped you - we could’ve had all kinds of fun.”

The demon was right in front of Sam now, standing only a handful of inches from where he was pinned like a struggling moth to the wall. It reached up and ran Marlene’s fingers down the side of his face in a parody of gentleness.

“‘Course, I guess we still can,” it said.

Sam gathered all the saliva in his mouth and spit. The glob landed squarely on Marlene’s forehead. The demon flinched, then wrinkled Marlene’s nose in disgust, reaching up to wipe away the offending liquid.

“That was rude,” it said. “She’s still in here, Sam. Are you really gonna spit on a lady? Even an obnoxious old windbag like this one?”

“Quit playing games,” Sam said, “and just tell me what you _want._ ”

“Alright, alright,” the demon said. “All work and no play makes Sam a dull boy. But you’re right. I came here to do a job.”

It pulled something out from the band of Marlene’s pants. The edge of it flashed in the light, and Sam squirmed even harder as he realized what it was - a knife. But the demon didn’t point the blade at him. Instead, it pressed the edge up against Marlene’s arm, drawing it across the bare flesh. Blood oozed quickly up and out of the cut and began dripping down her arm in a thick stream.

“Now say ‘ah,’” the demon said, and raised the wound to Sam’s mouth.

Sam clamped his mouth shut and tried to twist away. Whatever was happening right now, all he knew was that there was no way in hell he wanted that blood in his mouth. The demon made a sound of frustration at his lack of cooperation and reached up to pinch his nostrils shut. 

“Come on, Sam,” the demon said impatiently. “Stop trying to make this difficult.”

Hot liquid smeared across his chin and cheek, cooling and drying almost instantly as it touched his skin. His face felt tacky with it. Spots danced in front of Sam’s eyes as his brain screamed for oxygen. At last, it grew to be too much. His lips parted as he gasped for air, and Marlene’s blood spilled onto his tongue. It tasted like copper - but also like something else. Something rotten.

Downstairs, Sam heard the shop door bang open. There were footsteps on the stairs.

“Dean,” he muttered weakly.

“There we are,” the demon said, pulling Marlene’s arm away. “All done.” It smiled. “Baby’s first vaccination.”

“Dean!” Sam shouted. “Stay away!”

“Sam!” Dean yelled from the living room.

“Well, I’d love to stay and play with you and big brother,” the demon said, “but I’ve got things to do. Places to be. Souls to torture. But don’t worry, Sam. I’ll be seeing you soon.”

Dean burst into the room, only to freeze in the doorway.

“ _Marlene?_ ” he said dumbly.

The demon in Marlene’s body winked at Sam. Then Marlene’s neck twisted all the way around, the bones snapping and breaking as her head turned completely to face Dean. A column of black smoke roared out of her mouth and Sam slumped down the wall onto the ground, finally released from the demon’s grip. The smoke swirled in the air, zipped over Dean’s head, and disappeared through the apartment and down the stairs.

Dean stared after it. Sam stared down at Marlene’s corpse in shock.

“Marlene was a demon?” Dean asked in disbelief. “That...that actually explains a lot.”

“Not the time, Dean,” Sam said in a high-pitched voice.

“What the hell did she do to you?” Dean quickly crossed the room. He stepped gingerly over Marlene’s corpse and dropped to his knees to examine Sam for injuries. “Is that blood?”

“Yeah, and I’m really freaking out right now!” Sam said. “It’s hers. Marlene’s. She bled in my mouth. She said -”

He reached up and wiped frantically at his face, trying to get the blood off. His hand was shaking when he looked down at it, smeared with red. His gaze fell past it, to the body.

“It broke her neck,” he said dully. “She’s dead. The demon, it said she was still in there and it just -”

“Okay, let’s get you up,” Dean said, sticking his hands under Sam’s armpits and hoisting him upward.

He dragged Sam past Marlene, out into the hall and toward the bathroom. Turning on the tap, he cupped his hand under the water and splashed it liberally on Sam’s face.

“There’s a dead body in my bedroom,” Sam said numbly. He glanced down at Dean. “A demon just attacked me - or something - and now there’s a body in my bedroom and Marlene is dead and _how_ are you not just as freaked as I am by all this?”

“This isn’t my first rodeo, you know that,” Dean said. He grabbed a towel and wiped Sam’s chin clean.

“You went on one hunt with Dad when you were eighteen!” Sam said.

“And it was way bloodier than this, I can tell you that much right now,” Dean said.

“Demons, Dean!” Sam said. “The only thing Dad ever told us about demons was that holy water repels them and that if we ever saw one we should run the hell away. And we don’t have any holy water!”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “Yeah, I know.”

He dropped the towel and studied Sam’s panicked expression, taking in the remaining streaks of blood and the pale tinge to his brother’s face. They were in way over their heads, and they both knew it.

“We have to call him,” Dean said. At Sam’s opening mouth he went on, “Don’t argue with me, Sam. There is only one person we know who is even remotely qualified to handle this, and it’s Dad. We don’t have any other choice.”

Sam looked away.

“What it did to me…” he started. “What if...what if it did something…"

Dean swiped a hand over his face and tried to think. He turned to stare at Marlene’s dead body, lying still and cooling on the floor across the hall through Sam’s doorway. Her eyes stared blankly back at him, face resting unnaturally above her back shoulders.

“Look, we don’t have to tell him everything,” Dean finally said. “But we need help. We need to know how to fight something like this. I mean, do you know any exorcisms? No, I didn’t think so. At the very least, we need to know what the hell to do with the body.”

“The body,” Sam said, realization dawning over him. “They’re going to think we did it, Dean. It’s going to look like we murdered her.”

“No, no one is going to think anything,” Dean said. “We’re going to get rid of it and no one is ever going to know that this happened.”

“She has a family!”

“And that sucks, but it’s not on us!” Dean said. “We didn’t do this! The demon did!” He paused and made a considering face. “Besides, she was kind of a crappy relative. They’re not missing out.” He supposed the candles had kind of worked after all. At Sam’s disbelieving look, he pressed on, “I’m calling Dad. He’ll know what to do. So just - stay right there and - and don’t pass out. Maybe sit down. You’re looking a bit woozy.”

Sam sank down onto the toilet seat and tried not to feel out of place, squeezed between the shower curtain with its palm trees and ocean view and the soap dispenser shaped like a mermaid with enormous breasts. He mostly failed. Everything felt too surreal, too awful. It was like he was watching some false version of his life from somewhere just outside his body. Nothing felt like it was under his control.

Dean, meanwhile, fished his cellphone out of his pocket and scrolled through his contacts until he reached their dad’s phone number. It rang for a long time, then went to voicemail.

“This is John Winchester,” the automated message said. “If this is an emergency, call Bobby Singer.” Then he listed off a phone number with a South Dakota area code.

Dean hung up and tried again. There was still no answer. He did this two more times before finally giving in and leaving a message.

“Dad, it’s Dean. Call me back when you get this. It’s important.”

Then he hung up.

“It’s no use,” he said to Sam. “Dad’s not answering his phone.”

“Of course not,” Sam said. “Of course he’s not answering his phone the one time we call in a life or death situation. Is this what a panic attack feels like? I think I’m about to have a panic attack.”

“Whoa, whoa, calm down,” Dean said. “Everything’s going to be fine. We just have to…”

“Figure out how to dispose of a body on our own?” Sam asked.

“Listen, Dad left a number in his voicemail to call in case of emergency,” Dean said. “Some guy named Bobby Singer. Maybe he can help.”

“Help us _dispose of a body?_ ” Sam repeated, gesturing hysterically toward said body.

“Do you have a better plan?” Dean asked, punching in the numbers on his cellphone. “You want to call Missouri and get her input on this one? Dede maybe? Oh yeah, that’ll go over great. Those two definitely know how to handle a corpse. Maybe we can get Patience to help with her little plastic shovel and bucket!”

“Oh my god, we’re going to go to jail,” Sam breathed. “We’re going to jail and Missouri is going to disown us and you’re going to start drinking toilet wine. This is how it all ends. In a maximum security prison cell with a picture of Pamela Anderson taped above the sink.”

Dean shushed him loudly as the phone picked up.

“‘Lo?” a tired voice answered. “You know what time it is?”

“Yeah, sorry, I wouldn’t be calling if it wasn’t an emergency,” Dean said. “Is this Bobby Singer? John Winchester gave us your number. My name’s Dean.” There was a long pause. “Dean Winchester. His son.”

There was an even longer pause.

“John Winchester has a _kid?_ ” the man on the other side of the line asked. He didn’t sound like he thought this was either likely or advisable.

“Two, in fact,” Dean said. “Anyway, we have kind of a situation here, and our dad isn’t answering his phone. We were hoping you could tell us how we can reach him.”

“No idea,” Bobby said. “John’s been radio silent for almost a month now. If his own kids don’t know where he is, I sure as hell don’t.”

Dean laughed awkwardly.

“You’d be surprised,” he said. He cleared his throat. “Listen, is there any way you could give us a bit of advice? If Dad sent us your way I figure you must know a thing or two, right?”

Sam gave him a look that either meant ‘what is actually wrong with you?’ or ‘are you seriously going to tell this complete stranger about our dead body problem?’ or possibly a mixture of both. Dean turned around so he wouldn’t have to face him as he spoke.

“Or two,” Bobby said warily. “What is it?”

“Do you, uh, do you know anything about how to get rid of a body?”

Dean’s whole face contorted with a grimace as he asked. Behind him, he heard Sam let out a muttered, “Oh god, we are so screwed.” Dean waved his hand at him to get him to shut up. Over the line, there was another long pause.

“What kind of body?” Bobby asked in the same wary tone.

“Uh, human,” Dean said. He winced again. “Well, it was a demon. There was a demon. In it. Then she kind of...spun her own head around like this was _The Exorcist_. Only, the fatal version.”

“Ah-ha,” Bobby said. Bizarrely, some of the wariness left his tone at this. “The demon’s not still in her, is it?”

“No, we’re pretty sure it’s gone,” Dean said. “A cloud of black smoke came out of her. Look, man, we’ve never dealt with anything like this before. I mean, _demonic possession?_ We could really use your help. We’d owe you one, if that makes any difference.”

“Nah, your daddy’s saved my hide enough times that it wouldn’t be right,” Bobby said. “Either of you ever dig a grave before?”

Dean turned back around to stare at Sam.

“No,” he said. “No, we have never dug a grave before.”

“...You two are really John Winchester’s kids?”

“So they keep telling us,” Dean said.

“Well, alright,” Bobby said. “Listen up, then. It’s important that you do everything exactly as I say.”

][

One harrowing grave digging experience later, Sam and Dean returned home muddy and exhausted. They took several minutes to line the doors and windows with salt, per Bobby’s instructions, then collapsed onto the couch, both sporting hundred yard stares.

“I can’t believe we just hid a body -” Sam started

“- underneath another body,” Dean finished. “Yeah, that was pretty messed up. Dad definitely never mentioned that part in any of his stories.”

“Ugh, the smell…” Sam said.

“I’m adding that one to the list of things that will keep me up at night,” Dean said. He stood up and went into the kitchen to fetch them both a couple of well-earned beers. “Guess all we have to do now is keep our heads down and hope no one notices.”

“Dude, what are we going to tell Missouri?” Sam asked, pressing the cold bottle up against his temple. He’d started forming a headache at about the time they’d arrived at the cemetery with a body and a pair of shovels hidden in the bed of his truck. It didn’t show any signs of abating now that they were home.

Dean huffed out a laugh.

“Are you kidding me?” he asked. “You want to tell her about this?”

“You think we can hide it from her?” Sam asked. “That woman can smell the stench of guilt from a mile away. I’ll bet you five dollars she sat up in bed an hour ago with the overwhelming sense that we were up to no good and is planning to grill us on it the next chance she gets.”

“...You may have a point.”

Dean took a long drink.

“Let's hold off on talking to her until after we visit Bobby's,” he said. “She’ll be less freaked out if we have some kind of plan.”

“Bobby's?” Sam repeated. “Dad’s hunting buddy that you talked to for all of fifteen minutes? Why would you want to visit him?”

“He seemed to know a lot about demons,” Dean said. “And he said he had a crap load of books about them, too. He gave me his address, said we were welcome to stop by and take a look. We should probably find out all we can, don't you think?”

“I guess,” Sam said slowly.

Dean picked up his beer and took another long drink. Then, examining the bottle label like it was the most interesting in the world, he asked, “So are we gonna talk about it?”

“Talk about what?”

“The demon,” Dean said. “It came for you, but not to kill you. It bled in your mouth.”

Sam looked away.

“It said,” he began hesitantly, “that the ritual I tried when I was a teenager...this wasn't about that.”

“What else could it possibly be about, Sam?” Dean asked. “You almost toss your soul to Satan, and then years later when a demon shows up to get frisky, we're supposed to believe it’s completely unrelated?”

“I don't know,” Sam said.

“Demons lie,” Dean said. “It's kind of their thing.”

“Maybe.”

Sam rubbed at his mouth with his hand. He could still feel the sticky residue of blood beneath his fingers. Could still taste copper and sulfur in the back of his throat. That, and…it was almost like he could feel it inside of him. Like a low-grade hum, emanating from just behind his teeth.

“Why would it even do something like that?” Dean asked. “Bleed in you? Was it trying to pass you some kind of - of demon disease? Work some mojo? Bind you to it somehow? I’ve seen you use blood in binding rituals before.”

“I don't know, Dean,” Sam repeated, shaking his head. “I just don’t know.”

But he had a suspicion. He only hoped that it was wrong.

][

Neither of them slept well that night, but for once it wasn’t because of Sam’s nightmares. The few hours he managed to grab were blissfully free of visions of Dean’s death. He found no vindication in the proof that it really had been a premonition, or relief in the knowledge that it had passed without being fulfilled. Old torments had been replaced by new ones.

The early hours of the morning found Sam sitting at his desk, going through his old notes on protective wards. He flipped through sketches of the anti-theft sigils he’d designed for the store and the runes he’d drawn up for attracting potential customers, arousing curiosity in passersby. His fingers lingered over the seals that he’d had tattooed on his shoulders, seals that he’d replicated in the apartment and the store. They were supposed to keep evil spirits out. Clearly they weren’t strong enough to work on demons. He’d have to find something that would work, and soon.

As he studied these pages, he flipped his athame over and over again in his hand, feeling the cool weight of the dagger in his palm. The small wrought iron blade with its smooth wooden handle brought him a measure of security that he desperately needed after the violation of his home - and his body. It had been a long time since he’d felt the urge to keep it close, but he felt it again now.

Just in case it was necessary. To cut a sign in the air - or to cut flesh. One or the other. Just in case.

On the other side of the wall that separated Sam’s bedroom from Dean’s, a similar storm was brewing.

For a long time, Dean sat staring at his closet door, contemplating potential risks, weighing pros and cons. Occasionally, he checked his phone, as if a message from their dad might suddenly appear without alerting him. It never did.

Then, just as the sun was rising, he stood up and crossed to the closet. He hesitated only a moment more. Then he pushed his hanging flannels aside. There, in the back wall, was a false panel.

He’d felt like some kind of spy or supervillain installing it. Secretly, he’d been a little gleeful. What was cooler than having a hidden compartment in your room? (A lava lamp, possibly, but he had one of those, too.) Any joy he derived from its concept, however, was negated by its contents. In fact, Dean usually went to great lengths to avoid thinking about it. That’s why he’d bothered with the false panel in the first place. There were just some things that were better left forgotten.

That morning, he pried it open for the first time in years.

The compartment was small, barely bigger than a safety deposit box at the bank. It was just large enough to hold the three items inside: A handgun, a case of silver bullets, and a little black leather-bound book. Something in that book seemed to prick to attention under Dean's eyes as the panel came off in his hands. He swallowed, then reached inside and pulled all three objects out.

Possibly, he wouldn’t need any of these things, now or ever. That would’ve been a-okay with Dean. Even so, he’d sleep better knowing they were within grabbing distance. 

He stowed them in his nightstand right beside the bed. As he did so, his fingers lingered on the book's worn and cracked cover, feeling the hum of power lying underneath, coiled tight like a snake. It called to him. It always had.

Dean forced himself to shut the nightstand drawer. He crawled under the covers of his bed to catch what meager sleep he could manage.

Just in case, he told himself as he closed his eyes. One or the other. Just in case.

][

They headed for Sioux Falls first thing in the morning, partly because it was a long drive, and partly because they wanted to avoid running into Missouri at all costs. The only way to survive an encounter with her at this point was to make sure it didn’t happen. They’d have to cross that bridge when they got to it, but they were absolutely taking the scenic route.

“Are we sure about this Bobby guy?” Sam asked, pulling onto the interstate. “He's a hunter. Historically, hunters don't feel great about our kind.”

“Our kind?” Dean parroted back.

“Fine, my kind. Witches.”

“He seems okay,” Dean said as he finished fussing with the radio. He leaned back in his seat and let the dulcet tones of Def Leppard wash over him like a balm. “He helped us hide a body. If you can't trust the guy who helps you hide a body, who can you trust?”

“On the other hand,” Sam said, “is it a good idea to trust the guy who knows how to hide a body?”

That was a fair point, actually. 

Dean made a face as the classic rock station he’d just found abruptly fuzzed out. That was the real bitch of a long distance drive, especially since Sam didn’t keep any decent tapes or CDs in his truck. Dean went back to fiddling with the dial, trying to coax ‘Hysteria’ back into clarity.

“Plus,” Sam went on, “he didn't know we - I was a witch when he helped us out.”

“Look, we'll go up there and scope out the situation,” Dean said. “Get the lay of the land, figure out if he has anything useful to tell us. And if he makes a big deal about you being a witch -”

“We'll what, Dean?” Sam asked, leveling his brother with a judgemental stare. “Shoot him? No offense, dude, but it's super obvious that you're packing right now. It's kind of freaking me out, actually. Since when do you own a gun?”

“Since Dad is a paranoid bastard and I had a sixteenth birthday,” Dean said. “And I'm not saying we shoot Bobby. Just...suggest with the threat of violence that he back off a bit should the need arise. No one has to get hurt.”

Sam thunked his forehead forward against the steering wheel.

“Eyes on the road there, tiger,” Dean said.

“What is my life?” Sam asked nobody in particular, even as he looked back up.

“Cheer up,” Dean said. “I'm sure Dad would've gotten you one too if you'd asked.” His gaze turned knowing. “Besides - don’t think I didn’t see you palm your athame on the way out the door. You’re just as armed as I am right now.”

“Not really,” Sam said, but he let the matter of the gun drop.

They were just north of Omaha when Dean’s phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket and glanced at the caller I.D.

“Aw, crap,” he said.

“What?” Sam asked. “Who is it? Dad?”

“Worse,” Dean said.

He flipped open the phone and pressed it to his ear.

“Hey Missouri,” he said brightly, trying for casual and landing somewhere in the neighborhood of ultra suspicious.

“What did you two knuckleheads do now?” she asked by way of greeting.

“Us?” Dean said. “Nothing, don't worry. Everything's great. Better than great, in fact. Sam's dreams finally stopped, so that's good news.”

“Sam's dreams hadn't stopped before?” Missouri asked sharply.

“Way to stick your foot in it,” Sam muttered.

“Uh,” Dean said. “I didn't quite catch that, Missouri. There's some kind of...interference. You're breaking up.”

“Dean Winchester, you had better not -”

“I'll call you back when we have better service,” Dean said. “Gotta go. Bye.”

He hung up. Sam glanced away from the road again to give Dean a look of abject horror.

“Did you just hang up on Missouri?” he asked.

Dean groaned.

“I don’t know, I panicked,” he said. “God, I am so dead.”

“She's going to skin you alive,” Sam agreed.

“Well, look on the bright side,” Dean said. “At least now you know how to get rid of the evidence.”

][

Singer Auto Salvage was a cluttered labyrinth of old, rusted out cars and car parts, tucked far back in the trees away from any neighbors or would-be prying eyes. Dean found himself immediately charmed by the place. It was the kind of home a serial killer would have. As a lifelong fan of horror movies, he deeply approved.

He would’ve thought that Sam - bizarre serial killer nerd that he was - would feel similarly, but judging by the pinched look on his face as they mounted the front steps, this was not the case. That might have been due to the fact that if Bobby Singer did turn out to be a serial killer, Sam was probably his type.

“Hey, look,” Dean said, pointing. “Dog.”

An old rottweiler sluggishly raised its head from its paws to eye them from its vantage point on the porch. It didn’t seem interested in doing much more than watch their progress, however, at least for the moment. Either that or it was just too old to do anything else.

“He can’t be a bad guy,” Dean said. “He has a dog.”

“Hitler had pet dogs,” Sam said bleakly.

“Oookay,” Dean said. “Well, if Hitler answers the door, I promise to shoot without question, dog or no dog.”

Sam glared at him.

Dean reached out and opened the screen door so he could knock. From inside the house, there came a shuffling sound, and then footsteps drawing close.

“Who’s there?” a voice called.

“John Winchester’s kids,” Dean called back. “We talked to you on the phone last night.”

There was a pause, the thunk of a lock and the slide of a deadbolt, and then the door swung open to reveal an older man with a beard and a trucker cap. He was frowning at them, but he had the kind of face you sort of expected to look displeased as a matter of course.

“Bobby Singer?” Dean asked.

“Yeah, that’s me,” Bobby said. He thrust a metal canteen in their direction. “Here. Holy water.”

“Uh, thanks?” Sam said, accepting it. He peered suspiciously down into its mouth.

“You’re supposed to drink it, not stare at it, you idjit,” Bobby said.

“Oh,” Sam said. “Why?”

“House rules,” Bobby said. “Everyone who walks through the front door gets tested for demons.”

“Paranoid, aren’t you?” Dean asked. He snatched the canteen from Sam, took a swig, then handed it back to Sam. “I can see why you and Dad get along.”

Sam took a drink, too.

“Let me get one thing straight,” Bobby said, reclaiming his holy water canteen. “John and I might work together, but we do not get along.”

“Yeah, that sounds like Dad,” Sam said.

“You ain’t demons, anyway,” Bobby said. “Get in here.” 

The inside of Bobby’s house was just as cluttered as the salvage yard, albeit by books instead of machines. Sam leaned toward one nearby stack with open interest. It was obvious that his hands were itching in his pockets to reach out and touch, but he refrained from doing more than ogling the ancient tomes as Bobby led them deeper into the house.

The room he brought them to was filled with an even larger number of books, and more - the walls were tacked with old pages covered in drawings and writing in languages Dean couldn’t begin to decipher. He glanced at Sam expectantly. Sam’s eyes were darting around the room with laser focus, like a kid who’d just stepped into a candy store for the first time in his life.

“Don’t wet yourself,” Dean said.

Sam rolled his eyes and leaned in to examine a page written in something that was definitely not English and which probably predated England as an idea by about a thousand years.

“Which one of you is Dean?” Bobby asked, coming to a stop beside a desk laden with loose papers and half-empty whiskey bottles.

“The handsome one, of course,” Dean said. “And this is my baby brother, Sam.”

Bobby squinted up at Sam.

“Not Sam Winchester?” he asked.

Sam drew back from his perusal of Bobby’s collection to exchange an alarmed glance with Dean.

“Yeah,” he said warily. “You’ve...heard of me?”

“We’ve got a mutual friend,” Bobby said. “Pamela Barnes.”

They both blinked at him for a surprised moment, and then Dean’s felt his face split into a broad smile of genuine delight.

“No way!” he said. “Not Pam! I love that chick! Hey Sammy, remember your twenty-first birthday party? Your first legal drink was a body shot off of her, wasn’t it? Man, those were good times.”

“Uh, yes, yes it was,” Sam said. A flush crawled up his cheeks. He looked away from Bobby, who had raised one unimpressed eyebrow, and cleared his throat. “She talks about me?”

“Mentioned you a couple of times,” Bobby said. “Talked about your witchcraft. And your ass, but I tried to tune that second part out.”

The smile dropped from Dean’s lips almost as quickly as it had arrived. As casually as possible, he put his hand on his hip near where his gun was tucked into the back of his jeans.

“That’s not gonna be a problem, is it?” he asked.

“Not for me it ain’t, as long as there are no demons involved,” Bobby said. “And we already ruled that out, so you can put your gun away, boy.” Dean dropped his hand awkwardly back to his side. “I trust Pamela’s judgement. I never in a million years would’a guessed that her Sam Winchester and my John Winchester were the same kind of Winchester, though.”

“Maybe not exactly the same kind,” Sam said with a wince. “Pamela’s never said anything to him about me, has she?”

“Not likely,” Bobby said with a snort. “They don’t get along.”

“Is there anyone our dad gets along with?” Dean asked.

Bobby considered that for a moment.

“His car,” he finally said.

“Yeah,” Sam said again, “that sounds like Dad.”

“Anyway, if Pamela’s word is any good - and it usually is - you know your stuff,” Bobby said. “I’m surprised you need my help at all.”

“Sam here may be a walking encyclopedia when it comes to witchy crap,” Dean said, “but neither of us knows the first thing about demons.”

“Uh-huh,” Bobby said. “I’m surprised about that, too. Thought your daddy would’a taught you all about ‘em.”

Sam and Dean looked at each other again, this time in pure confusion.

“Why would he do that?” Sam asked.

“Well, because he’s hunting the one that killed Mary, isn’t he?” Bobby said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“He’s what?” Sam croaked.

“Son of a bitch,” said Dean.

He wasn’t sure if he meant the demon or their dad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It feels weird treating a piece of information literally everyone knows like a plot twist but structurally I needed it.
> 
> Chapter title is 'Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap' by AC/DC. 'Hysteria' by Def Leppard is a Destiel THEME, though.


	5. The Seeker

**THEN**

Sam watched from the window in Missouri’s living room as Dean and their dad stood talking on the front curb, next to the Impala. The car’s trunk was popped, but its hidden compartment was closed - their dad wouldn’t risk opening it up in broad daylight, especially not on a residential street like this one. Even so, John was gesturing past the length of rope and bag of tools, saying something about whatever was inside, and Dean was nodding seriously along.

Sam couldn’t tell what they were talking about, not from this far away, but his eyes tracked each minute movement like it was a vital clue for divination. A tiny shred of a leaf could change the meaning of a cup of tea - Sam watched as if a twitch of Dean’s hand might indicate potential catastrophe. Nothing revealed itself; Sam had never had any talent for prediction.

“I don’t get it,” he said to Missouri, who was standing next to him. “Why is Dean going on a hunt?”

Missouri uncrossed her arms and turned away from the window, like she couldn’t stand to watch the scene playing out on her front lawn a moment longer.

“You want the long version or the short version?” she asked, walking away.

She didn’t sound like she wanted to tell either version. She sounded like she wanted to go upstairs, draw a hot bath, and pretend none of this was happening.

“Why are you letting him go?” Sam asked instead.

“Dean’s an adult now,” Missouri said. “He can make his own decisions.”

“Yeah, but…” 

Sam trailed off, distracted. Dean was getting in the front seat of the Impala, behind the wheel. 

That surprised Sam somehow. Dean had already taken Driver’s Ed and gotten his license ages ago, but it was still weird, seeing him behind the wheel of their dad’s car. Most of Sam’s memories of their dad were of him sitting in that seat as he left or arrived (usually the former). The two things were tied intrinsically together in Sam’s mind. To see Dean now mirroring that image made something churn uncomfortably in Sam’s gut.

“He’s going to be okay, right?” Sam asked.

“John knows what he’s doing,” Missouri’s voice floated from the kitchen. Sam heard the tap turn on - she was probably filling the kettle. “He won’t baby Dean, that’s for sure, but he won’t let him get hurt, either.”

Sam frowned. The Impala revved to life and pulled slowly away, Dean’s elbow hanging out the open window on the driver’s side.

“But is he going to be okay?” Sam asked again. “Do you know?”

There was no response. Sam turned from the window to follow Missouri into the kitchen. He watched her for a moment as she rifled through the cabinet with its stacks of tea tins, looking for the one that she wanted. Her hand finally fell on a box near the back - peppermint.

“Do you know?” Sam asked again.

Missouri sighed and turned to face him, her face creased with weariness, lips pulled downward in a worried frown.

“No, sweetpea,” she said softly. “I don’t know.” She turned back to the tea tin, popping open the lid to scoop out some loose leaves. “Do you want a cup of tea?”

“No, thanks,” Sam muttered.

He left the kitchen and wandered listlessly toward his bedroom.

He and Dean had shared it for a long time, up until James had finally moved out a couple of years ago and freed his old room for Dean to move into. It had been a little weird for Sam to have a room to himself all of a sudden after so long spent sharing, but he’d mostly been relieved. He’d always wanted his own space without Dean’s dirty laundry on the floor or the pages he tore from motorcycle magazines taped to the walls - a place where Sam could listen to the music he liked and do his homework in peace. Now, however, it felt oddly empty.

He sank down on the edge of his bed, reached under his pillow, and pulled out the grimoire he’d borrowed most recently from Madam’s library. It was thick and heavy and ancient and he had to be careful when he turned its pages, they were so fragile. He normally kept it sitting out on his desk, but when their dad had shown up that morning, he’d shoved it in the first hiding place he could think of. 

Just yesterday, he’d been excitedly absorbed in studying the numerology tables in its back pages. It felt like discovering the secret code of the universe. There was so much that numbers could tell him, so much they could do. Or, at least, it had seemed that way before. But what use were slow formulas and intricate patterns and delicate webs when Dean was out risking his life, right now, this very moment? 

Everything Sam knew felt abruptly like a useless party trick. It couldn’t keep his brother safe.

A restless feeling buzzed under his skin. Sam didn’t know how to make it go away, except that the answer wouldn’t be found in the book in his hands. He put it back under the pillow and tried to find something else to distract him from his anxiety. 

He spent most of the day like that - searching for diversion. Time crawled by, brutal in its slowness. 

Sam took the opportunity of Dean’s absence to sneak into his room and root through his stuff for anything interesting or embarrassing. At dinner time, he was sitting on Dean’s floor, skimming through a worn copy of  _ Salem’s Lot _ that he’d found stuffed between the mattress and the wall, not really taking in any of the words. A knock on the frame of Dean’s open doorway drew Sam back from the vast and wild territory of his own mind, and he blinked up to see Missouri looking down, still with that sad, worried expression on her face.

“Time to eat,” she said softly. “I made mac and cheese.”

In her house, of course, mac and cheese didn’t come from a box. Neither Missouri nor Dean would have stood for it. Missouri’s mac and cheese was home baked, with pepper jack and a kick of paprika. Sam tossed Dean’s book on the bed and got up. He didn’t have the heart to tell Missouri that he wasn’t feeling hungry after she’d gone through so much effort on his account. It was his favorite food. 

She could tell without being told, anyway. He didn’t do a very good job of hiding it as he forced himself to shovel small forkfuls of noodles into his mouth, each bite an almost herculean effort. And besides - Missouri always knew.

“After dinner,” she finally said, apparently taking pity, “how about I show you how to scry?”

“Scry?” Sam asked without much interest.

“We’ll check up on your brother and father,” Missouri said. “See if they’re doing alright.”

Sam perked to immediate attention.

“You can do that?” he asked.

“I sure can,” Missouri said with a smile. “I’ll show you how, too.”

After dinner - which Sam finished as quickly as possible - they moved to the living room, where Missouri took out a shallow basin and four white candles.

“Go fill that up with water,” she said to Sam, handing him the dish.

Sam took it and hurried to the bathroom sink. When Missouri was working with a client, she always used purified springwater for divination, but any old tap water would do. Clients had ideas about the mysteries of fortune telling, though, and it paid to play along. The rest of the time, Missouri didn’t bother.

Sam returned with the water to find that Missouri had set out the candles on a black table cloth covered in occult patterns (to keep the table clean and not for any other special purpose, but, again - the clients).

“The four cardinal directions,” he observed.

“Very good,” Missouri said with a smile. She took the basin from his hands and set it down in the middle. “Now, John’s always been a tricky one to find. He wards himself against most methods of magical tracking. But your brother should be easy enough.”

“What do we have to do?”

“We’ll need something connected to your brother and father,” Missouri said. “Just a little bit. Then there’s a chant.” 

She recited the words for Sam. It was short, and in Latin. Sam was still learning, but he thought he recognized the root verb that meant ‘to seek,’ and he definitely heard the word for ‘heart.’ Missouri repeated it a few times until Sam could say it back clearly and correctly.

“Do you want me to go find something from Dean’s room?” Sam asked.

“No need,” Missouri said. “For this, we can use something of yours. A drop of blood would work best - blood always does - but a hair will do fine.”

“We can use blood,” Sam said.

Missouri hesitated.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” she said.

She probably wasn’t thrilled with the idea of Sam hurting himself, even a little bit. But there were plenty of spells that required blood from the caster. There was hardly any point in putting up a fuss about it now, Sam thought.

“I’ll be fine,” Sam said. “It’s just a drop, right?”

Missouri studied him for a moment, then caved. She retrieved one of the silver pins from out of the cabinet and cleaned it with a medical swab. Then she passed it, along with a second alcohol wipe, to Sam.

“Just a drop,” she said.

Sam wiped his left index finger clean and pressed the point of the pin into the fleshy pad. There was barely a sting before a small dot of red welled up onto his fingertip.

“Now what?” he asked.

“Say the chant while concentrating on your brother and your intent to find him,” Missouri instructed. “Then let the drop fall into the water.”

Sam approached the basin, holding his hand aloft, careful not to let the blood fall too soon. He closed his eyes and thought of Dean, pictured his face and voice clearly in his mind. Sam reached out to the image and tried to grab and hold onto it as he began to chant.

Then he opened his eyes and let the blood slip down.

The drop was small enough that it barely made a splash. It diffused almost instantly into nothingness, and Sam leaned over the basin to see what would happen next. Part of him was expecting to see an image appear on the surface, like in a mirror, or on a screen. But no such mystical vision materialized on the water. 

Instead, minutely, the water began to tremble.

At first it was just a shudder on the surface. Then it was a pulse. Emanating out from the center of the basin came a steady, silent beating that rippled outward in rings. Thump. Ba-thump. Ba-thump. Ba-thump.

Sam sucked in a breath as he realized what he was seeing - it was the beating of Dean’s heart. Then relief made his shoulders slump, and a tension leaked out of him that he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying. He felt lighter - easy and loose.

“He’s alive,” he said.

“Yes, he is,” Missouri said. She sounded just as relieved as Sam felt. “Good job, Sam. On your first try, too.”

Sam beamed. Then he turned back to watch Dean’s heart. It was even and strong. Reliable. Alive. 

But it didn’t last. After a few moments, the beating began to slow.

“What’s the matter?” Sam asked, his own heart leaping into his throat. “Did something happen to him?”

“Not to worry,” Missouri said. “Your brother’s alright. The ritual is losing its power, that’s all.”

The ripples evened out, until, at last, the water was placid once more.

“Let’s try your father now,” Missouri said.

Sam nodded and repeated the ritual. It was harder this time. The image of his dad was less clear, and he had to strain to form the right intent. When he pricked his finger and let his blood fall into the water once again, the results were disappointing - instead of a steady heartbeat, there was barely more than a few wavering tremors.

Sam frowned down at it, concerned.

“Is he okay?” he asked. “Is something wrong?”

“He’s fine,” Missouri said. “You’re just getting some interference. It’s like I said - John’s a hard one to pin down. I would’ve been surprised if you’d gotten much more than this. He’s alive, though, or there would have been no response at all.”

Sam watched the quivering fade back down to nothingness.

“I want to scry for Dean again,” he said when it was gone.

Missouri hesitated. Her concern was back - just the faintest pinching at the eyes. She was about to say no, Sam could tell.

“Please,” Sam begged. “I just want to see.”

“Alright,” Missouri relented. “One more time.”

Sam performed the ritual again. He stared down at the beat of Dean’s heart, comforted by its presence, by the fact of it laid bare before his eyes. Everything was fine. 

Then dread crawled back into him as it began once more to fade.

He was reminded abruptly of how little there was he could actually do to keep Dean safe. From here, he could only stand and observe, wait for his brother to either come home or for his heart to stop. There was nothing Sam could do to reach out and help him if he was in danger. He couldn’t alter the movements in the water. All he could do was watch.

Sam’s reflection in the flat surface mocked him. His face looked pale and scrawny and wan.

“Again,” he said.

“Sam,” Missouri said in warning.

“Just one more time,” he said.

He was already pricking his finger. He hurried through the chant, eager for the results, and then there it was: Dean’s heart. Thump. Ba-thump. Ba-thump. Ba-thump. 

Then gone.

“Again,” he said.

“Sam,” Missouri said, voice dropping to the level of a command. “Stop it.”

Sam ignored her. He reached for the pin, pushed it clumsily into his finger - it went deeper than just a prick this time. A stream of red spilled out from the wound. He hissed in pain, but yanked his wrist back when Missouri reached out for his hand.

“No!” he snapped. “Let me look!”

Missouri sighed. She shook her head and turned to begin pinching the candles out.

“Missouri!” Sam cried, betrayed.

“You’re not helping anything like this,” Missouri said tightly. “All you’re doing is hurting yourself. I’m not going to stand by and watch you.”

“But Dean…”

“He’s alive,” she said. “Trust him to keep himself that way. You have to concentrate on doing the same for yourself. That’s all you can do, Sam.” Her face softened. “That’s what your brother would want. For you to be safe. It’s what I want, too.”

Sam watched unhappily as she put away the candles, the wet wax already cooling and growing hard.

“Are you going to let me look at your hand, or are you just going to stand there and bleed?” she asked when she was done.

Still angry with her for interrupting him, Sam almost refused. He clutched his hand to his chest, his throbbing finger curled tightly to his palm like an animal hiding its weakness from view. 

Missouri looked so tired, though. He couldn’t stand making her look that way. And she had shown him that Dean was alright, even if it was just for the briefest span of time.

He held out his hand.

“It’s not so deep,” Missouri said. She muttered something - just a common spell for little pains, the kind of thing almost anyone could do with enough strength of will - and the throbbing ceased. “There you go.” Her fingers around his hand were warm and gentle. “Let’s get you a band-aid. And then how about a cup of tea?”

“...Yeah, okay,” Sam mumbled.

He felt suddenly exhausted with it all.

“I know it’s hard, Sam,” Missouri said. She reached out to touch his face, ran a thumb across his cheek - still round with baby fat. “I know how it is when you’re a teenager and you feel like magic should solve all the problems in the world. But there are no easy solutions in life, not even for psychics and witches.”

“It’s not fair,” Sam said, and then was immediately embarrassed. It sounded petulant and childish.

Missouri was sympathetic, though.

“I know,” she said. “It hardly ever is. Now go get a band-aid before you get any blood on your nice shirt.”

Sam went. Missouri finished clearing the ritual and put the kettle on again.

By then, it had gotten late - nearly nine o’clock at night - but it wasn’t until well past one in the morning that the distinctive rumbling sound of the Impala's engine broke the silence out on the street.

Sam and Missouri were sitting in the living room together, their teacups long since emptied. Sam was picking at his band-aid, morose and taciturn despite Missouri’s efforts to engage him in small talk. She was right next to him, though, a warm and solid presence at his side. And she was crocheting. 

She wasn’t very good at it. Sam couldn’t begin to discern what she was trying to make, but it seemed like it didn’t matter that much either way. It was the sort of thing a person did just for the sake of doing something.

At the sound of the Impala, both of them sat up to attention, abandoning their preoccupations. They listened as a car door slammed, then another. Then the front door opened and Dean was swaggering inside, John close at his heels, both of them looking no worse for wear than when they’d left.

“Good job out there tonight, Dean,” John was saying as they entered, a small, proud smile on his face. His gaze slid from Dean to Sam, who had wandered into the hall to see them. “Hey there, Sammy.”

“Hey, Dad,” Sam said.

“Dean tells me you got straight-A’s last semester,” John said. 

Sam nodded silently.

“That’s good,” John said. “That’s real good.” 

His smile slipped from his face as he looked up at Missouri, who had come to stand just behind Sam. Sam didn’t need to turn around to know what kind of face Missouri was making. The kind that could cow John Winchester.

John cleared his throat. 

“Anyway, it’s late,” he said. “I should get going back to the motel.”

“How about you stick around for a few days?” Dean asked. “We could go bike shopping.”

“I’d like that,” John said. “I would. But, uh...there’s a case down in Louisiana. It sounds like there might be some kind of haunting in Lake Pontchartrain. With tourist season being what it is…”

“Right,” Dean said. “Got it. Maybe next time.”

John turned to go. He hesitated, then looked back at Dean.

“Think about what we talked about, son,” he said.

“I will,” Dean said.

Then, with one last smile at Sam, and a wary glance at Missouri, John walked out the door and was gone again.

“Well,” Missouri said into the ensuing silence. “I’m glad to see you’re back in one piece.”

“C’mon, Missouri,” Dean said with a cocky grin. “You weren’t worried about me, were you?”

“Of course I was,” Missouri said. She sounded offended. More than that - she sounded hurt. “You want me to pretend that I didn’t spend all day wondering if you were going to come back alive, with your limbs all still attached?” She shook her head. “I didn’t raise you to be that callous.”

Dean’s smirk vanished, and he watched, clearly caught off guard, as Missouri turned and disappeared up the stairs toward her bedroom. He frowned after her for a moment, then looked to Sam. Sam shrugged.

“You were gone a long time,” he said. “Are you really okay?”

“Yeah, ‘course,” Dean said, smiling once more. He stepped closer to ruffle Sam’s hair.

Sam wrinkled his nose.

“Have you been drinking?” he asked.

“Hell yeah, I have,” Dean said. At Sam’s disapproving look, he said, “Lighten up, Sammy. Me and Dad had a couple to celebrate a successful hunt. That’s all.”

“Missouri’s gonna give it to you later,” Sam said.

“Nah,” Dean said. A wistful look crossed his face. “Missouri won’t say anything.”

He seemed certain of it. Sam didn’t really understand why, but he thought Dean was probably right.

“So...what was it like?” Sam asked. “Hunting. With Dad.”

“Great,” Dean said. He nodded a few times, as if to confirm this, and then added, “It was great. Really.” He turned and headed toward his bedroom, shedding his coat as he went. Sam trailed slowly after. “We tracked a couple of werewolves down south, near Chanute. You should’a seen ‘em, Sammy. All the teeth and claws and animal instinct. Totally badass.”

Sam made a humming sound of doubt.

“What, you don’t think so?” Dean asked. “Your big bro killed a werewolf today. Tell me that’s not the coolest thing you’ve ever heard.”

“I guess,” Sam said. “It’s just…”

“You jealous? Wait a couple of years and maybe Dad will take you, too.”

“I’m not,” Sam said sourly. He groaned with irritation and finally asked, “Why do you even want to go hunting, Dean? I don’t get it. It’s dangerous. You could get killed.”

Dean paused with his hand on his bedroom door knob. A curious expression flickered over his face. He was turned partly away, so Sam couldn’t quite make it out or decipher what it meant.

“Yeah, well, someone’s gotta do it,” Dean said. “And Dad knows a lot about monsters, about how to fight and kill them.” He shrugged. “And, you know, this hunting stuff ain’t half bad. Hell, maybe one day I’ll take it up like Dad. Then it’ll be a real family business.”

He smiled. There was something strained in it.

“Sure,” Sam said unhappily. “Hey, what did Dad mean? When he told you to think about what you’d talked about?”

Dean’s smile grew even tighter.

“Nothing,” he said. “Nothing.” He cleared his throat. “Don’t worry about it. Listen, I’m beat. I’ve been running around all day, y’know? Think I’m gonna hit the hay. You good?”

“Better than you,” Sam said, annoyed that Dean was keeping secrets from him. And that he seemed to be lying - about what, Sam wasn’t sure.

Dean eyed him for a second, then snorted.

“Bitch,” he said.

“Jerk,” Sam threw back.

Dean disappeared into his room. Sam was left standing in the hallway alone, staring at a blank door.

A moment later, Dean yelled through the door, “Stay out of my room, you twerp!”

Sam rolled his eyes and returned to his own room. 

Once there, he took the pillow off his bed and stared down at the book he’d borrowed from Madam’s library. It seemed so stupid now. So juvenile. He couldn’t remember why he had ever cared about anything in its pages.

Then he looked at his hand, at the band-aid wrapped around his finger. He thought of how powerless he’d felt that evening, unable to do more than scry for Dean’s pulse. He’d felt so weak.

That had to change. There were no easy solutions, Missouri had said, not even for witches. Well, maybe not. But there were hard ones.

He glanced down at the book again. Slowly, a plan was starting to take shape in his mind.

This one might be useless, but Madam had other books.

][

**NOW**

“Dad knew,” Sam said. “Dad knew about the demon this whole time and he didn’t tell us.”

“Sure, why would he?” Dean asked flippantly.

It was a rhetorical question, but Sam answered anyway with, “Uh, maybe because we deserve to know what it was that killed our mom? Maybe that could be important information for us to have, say, in the event that one decides to pay us a visit later on?”

“Hey, no arguments here,” Dean said. “He still hasn’t called me back, by the way.”

“Maybe that’s for the best,” Sam said bitterly.

“Come on, you don’t mean that.”

“How much has he been keeping from us, Dean? What does he know that we don’t? Do you think he knows that it was after -”

He cut himself off, becoming aware once again of their audience. Bobby was still standing by his desk, hands in his pockets, watching their back and forth with raised eyebrows.

“Don’t look at me,” he said as both brothers turned to stare at him. “I don’t know your family drama. And for that matter, I don’t care.”

Even so, Sam grabbed Dean’s arm and said to Bobby, “Excuse us for just a second.”

Then he pulled Dean back through the dim house and out into the yard. Dean came willingly enough. He had a couple questions of his own. 

Once they were safely out of hearing distance from even the dog (which had watched them go with barely more than a twitch), and hidden from view on the other side of Sam’s truck, he rounded on Sam.

“What’s going on?” Dean asked. “What did you mean, it was after something?”

“It was after me,” Sam said quietly. “The demon from yesterday and the one that killed Mom.”

Dean stared at him, not quite processing what he’d heard.

“Sorry -  _ what? _ ”

“Think about it, Dean,” Sam said. “It was in my nursery that night. Just like it was in my bedroom yesterday. For weeks, I’ve been having dreams about you dying just like Mom, and then this demon shows up and basically admits it was going to do the same thing to you before saying all this stuff about - about waking me up and  _ preparing  _ me -”

“Wait, slow down a second,” Dean said. “You didn’t mention any of that before.”

“I’ve had kind of a hectic couple of days!” Sam said. “Sorry if it slipped my mind between burying a body and worrying I was about to - to mutate into some kind of demonic vampire thing!”

“What else did it say exactly?” Dean asked.

Sam ran one hand through his hair and began to pace.

“Um, first it said that it was there to give me a wake-up call,” he said. “Then it made a lot of crappy jokes. I mean, mostly it seemed to be playing with me, but it talked about having some kind of job to do and then it said it would see me again soon.”

“Okay,” Dean said slowly. “Okay. Say you’re right. Say it really was after you. Why? What could it want with a baby? And why wait all these years to come back?”

“I don’t know,” Sam said. “But I’ve gotta be honest, man - I’m scared. It’s starting to seem like this is all part of something, you know? Like there’s a big demonic plan in the works, and somehow I’m involved. And if Dad -”

“If Dad thought you were in danger, he would be here,” Dean said. He was surprised to hear how uncertain the words sounded coming out of his mouth. “He would,” he said again, as though repeating it would make it any more believable.

It didn’t work, at least not for Sam. There was an anxious pinch to his brow, a worry to the corner of his mouth.

“I’m not going to let anything happen to you, Sam,” Dean tried instead. “Whatever this thing’s goal is, it’s not happening. Not on my watch. And not on yours, either. That’s why we’re here, isn’t it? To find a way to kick its ass.”

Sam breathed out heavily through his nose.

“Yeah,” he agreed.

“And we are going to kick its ass,” Dean continued. “Name one time I’ve sworn to kick someone’s ass and failed to follow through.”

“You say that like all of those ass-kickings didn’t just land you in even more trouble than before,” Sam said.

“The point is,” Dean said, “we’ve yet to meet trouble that was more trouble than us. As far as I’m concerned, demons are no exception.”

Sam scoffed, but there was a tinge of real humor to his laugh.

“You know, they say pride cometh before the fall,” he said wryly.

“So we’re in first place,” Dean said. “That’s what I like to hear.” He clapped Sam on the shoulder. “Either way, we’re not going down without a hell of a fight, Sammy. So let’s fight. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good,” Dean said. “Now get back in there and start digging through Bobby’s library of the damned like I know you’re dying to. And find out if he’s got a Dewey Decimal System going or something because, man, it’s a mess in there. When’s the last time you think he dusted? Cold War?”

“Somehow I doubt it was that recently,” Sam said. He started to head back toward the house, then paused when Dean didn’t immediately follow. Puzzled, he asked, “You coming?”

“There’s something I gotta do real quick,” Dean said. “I’ll be right in.”

“Sure, whatever,” Sam said.

Dean watched him go. He waited for Sam to disappear inside and for the screen door to bounce shut behind him before he turned his back on Bobby’s house and pulled his cellphone from his pocket.

He dialed their dad again. Again, it went to voicemail.

At the message tone, he began, “Dad.”

Then he stopped.

Dean stood there for a long time, phone to his ear, saying nothing. He couldn’t find the words. He didn’t know what kind of message was safe to leave in case it fell into the wrong hands. He didn’t know what magical words to use to make his dad respond. 

_ We need your help. Abracadabra. _

Wasn’t it enough that he had said it was important last time? Why hadn’t John called back? Was he even still alive? Was that why he had, according to Bobby, gone radio silent? Was he lying dead in a ditch somewhere? Had the demon that killed their mom caught up to him, too?

And besides that, there was nothing Dean could say that would accurately convey how desperately he wanted to talk to his dad. Just to hear that he was okay. Just to hear that he was still somewhere out there, doing his job.

Finally, there was a second tone as the voicemail timed out and the opportunity to say anything at all came to an end. A machine-like voice asked Dean if he would like to play back the message or record a new one. He pulled the phone from his face and stared at the screen for a moment. Then he flipped it shut and stuffed it back into his coat pocket.

Either John would call or he wouldn’t. There was nothing Dean could do about it now. But his brother was waiting for him, back inside Bobby’s house. Dean headed back up the front steps.

In the study, he found Sam sitting with his shirt off, Bobby leaning over to look at his tattoos.

“Wow,” Dean said, coming to a halt in the doorway. “I’m gone five minutes and you start feeling up my brother? Not cool, man.”

“Put a sock in it, smartass,” Bobby said, not raising his eyes. Then, to Sam, he said, “This is some real interesting work, kid. I can tell you adapted a bunch of different seals from various places, condensed ‘em, shuffled around the pieces. I’ve never seen anything like it. They’re a bit over-complicated for my tastes, but they’d probably get the job done against most spirits. Now, demons on the other hand.” He shook his head. “There’s only one thing I know for sure that’ll keep a demon out. And that’s this.” 

He reached for a nearby book and began flipping through its pages. When he found what he was looking for, he passed it to Sam.

“That’s it?” Sam asked, accepting the book. “It’s a bit...simple.”

“Not fancy enough for you?” Bobby snorted. “It doesn’t need all the extra bells and whistles to do the trick. And trust me - it does the trick. I usually wear a pendant with it etched into a silver coin, but something tells me that’s not gonna cut it for you.” He was eyeing the rest of Sam’s tattoos.

“No, you’re right,” Sam said. “Do you have a piece of paper and pen I can use to copy this down?”

Bobby rooted around on the desk for a minute before handing Sam a wrinkled piece of blank notebook paper and a half-empty ballpoint pen with no cap. Sam had to scribble a few circles in the margin of the page before it would work. Then he began the slow process of meticulously copying out the anti-possession seal, being careful to include every detail exactly as it appeared.

“Thinking about getting another piece of ink, huh?” Dean asked, leaning over Sam’s shoulder to watch him sketch. “It could be girlier, I guess. Where are you putting it this time? Wait, I’ve got it - tramp stamp.”

“You’re getting it, too,” Sam said.

“Excuse me?” Dean scoffed. “Says who?”

Sam paused in his drawing to turn and raise an eyebrow at Dean. Maintaining eye contact, they had a long, wordless argument, that finally ended with Dean finally sighing and slumping backward in reluctant acceptance.

“Please tell me we aren't going to Jacob’s for this,” he said.

“We’re going to Jacob’s,” Sam confirmed, because the universe hated Dean.

][

They stayed the night at Bobby’s, camped out on the pull-out sofa in his living room. It was barely long enough to fit Sam, whose feet dangled over the end.

“That’s what you get for being such a tall freak,” Dean said as Sam tossed and turned next to him, trying to get comfortable.

“Shut up,” Sam mumbled back. “And quit hogging the blankets.”

It was a miracle they made it through the night without one of them smothering the other with a pillow.

The next morning, Sam texted Missouri just to say they would be by later on sometime. All he got was a pointed, “You’d better,” in return. Dean grimaced when Sam showed him the message.

“We are in so much trouble,” he said.

“Thought you said there wasn’t any trouble greater than us,” Sam quipped back.

“Yeah, but I was talking about demons,” Dean said. “I’m twenty-six years old and I’m about to be grounded for the rest of my life. Quit laughing, Sammy. She’s gonna ground you, too. Just watch.”

Bobby let them go with an open invitation to come back and look through his books anytime, as well as a couple of water bottles filled with holy water.

“Where’d you get all this, anyway?” Sam asked. “Don’t you need a priest’s blessing for it to work?”

“Made it myself,” Bobby said. “Anybody can get ordained online these days.”

“Huh,” Dean said. “Father Bobby Singer. You take confession, too?”

“Not yours,” Bobby said.

With that, they were on their way.

Dean wanted to go back to the apartment first, but Sam insisted they go straight to get their tattoos. He was probably trying to prevent Dean from running away. Not that Dean would have. But he wanted to.

The best tattoo parlor in Lawrence was Bee Sting Body Art, which was unfortunate, because its owner and primary tattoo artist was a guy that Dean had gone to high school with. His name was Jacob and he had a buzzcut, gauged ears, a face like a weasel, and an ability to get under Dean’s skin like nobody else.

He was sitting behind the counter when Sam and Dean walked in.

“If it isn't Hocus and Pocus,” he greeted. “Sabrina the teenage witch and Salem the talking cat. You just fly in on your tandem broomstick?”

“Real funny, metal mouth,” Dean snapped back.

“That hasn't even been true since the braces came off in ninth grade,” he said. “Get a new insult, dillweed.”

“I’ll show you a new insult, you scrawny little -”

But Jacob had already moved on to Sam.

“So what weirdo crap do you want now?” he asked. “I'm not mixing any more of your shit into my ink, man, no matter how much you tip. I could get in serious trouble if anyone found out.”

“No, uh, none of that this time,” Sam said with a tight smile. “We just want this.” He slid the piece of paper with the anti-possession seal on it across the counter. “Exactly like that.”

“What, both of you?” Jacob asked, picking the paper up. “You guys are getting matching tats for your little Satan club? I don’t do couples’ discount rates, bee-tee-dubs.”

“You know what, I don't need this,” Dean said, making a grab at the paper. “We'll go across town to Pete's instead.”

“Whoa, whoa, pump the brakes there, hotshot,” Jacob said. He jerked the paper out of Dean’s reach. “No one's going to Pete's. He's unsanitary and he does shoddy workmanship and I hate him more than I hate you. I have my professional pride. Plus, I kinda can't wait to have you in my chair, Dean-o.”

Dean made a sound of deep discomfort.

“You’ve never gotten a tattoo before, have you?” Jacob asked slyly. “I’m gonna pop your tattoo cherry, bro. Give you your first prick. Don't worry - I'll be gentle.”

“Can we please go to Pete's?” Dean hissed to Sam.

“He’s kind of right, though,” Sam said apologetically. “Pete sucks. And it's important for a circular tattoo to be…circular.”

What he didn’t say was - Jacob might run his mouth, but he was the only one who would go along with Sam’s strange and controlling tattoo demands.

Dean looked at Jacob. Jacob waggled his eyebrows.

“Maybe demon possession's not so bad,” Dean muttered.

Sam elbowed him in the gut.

Jacob clapped his hands and rubbed them eagerly together.

“I might give you a discount after all,” he said to Sam gleefully. “It’s like Christmas came early in here.”

“One more thing,” Sam said. 

He took another piece of paper out of his pocket, this time just a scrap. Dean didn’t remember seeing it before.

“This one’s just for me,” Sam said.

“Whatever you want, Hermione,” Jacob said.

The tattoos took a couple of hours, and Dean spent the whole time restraining himself from leaping out of the chair and strangling Jacob with the cord of his tattoo gun.

“Man, I hate that guy,” he grumbled, shrugging his coat back on as they left.

Sam laughed.

“What?” Dean snapped.

“Nothing, it’s just, I always thought you guys were friends growing up,” Sam said.

“Me and him?” Dean asked. “No way! We were always fighting!”

“Yeah, you were constantly ragging on each other,” Sam agreed. “Everywhere. All over town. It kind of looked like hanging out to me.”

“Pfft,” Dean said. “Whatever. You know he borrowed a bunch of my cassette tapes once and never gave them back? Whenever I asked him about it he acted like he’d never had them in the first place. Total dick.”

“Right,” Sam said. “Definitely not friends.”

“Whatever,” Dean said again. “What’s that other tattoo you got? The one on your wrist?”

Sam held it up so Dean could see it better. It was a small black seal, no bigger than the size of a quarter.

“It’s for my athame,” Sam said. “I carved a matching seal on the handle while we were at Bobby’s yesterday. This way I can call it back to me if I lose it.”

“Huh,” Dean said. “Nifty. You think that’s likely to happen?”

Sam shrugged.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I feel better having it, though. I kept wishing I had my athame on me when the demon attacked me.”

Dean nodded thoughtfully.

Then he said, “Hey, maybe you can get another one for your wallet and keys, too.”

“Ha ha, very funny. So what now? Missouri’s?”

“Yeah,” Dean said with a sigh. “Better to pull the band-aid off quick. On a scale of one to ten, how mad do you think she is?”

“Eleven,” Sam said.

When Missouri opened the front door half an hour later, that certainly seemed to be the case.

“Spill,” she demanded with one hand on her hip and her chin held high.

“We didn’t do anything,” Dean said at the same time Sam said, “It wasn’t our fault.”

The look Missouri gave them was flat and unforgiving.

“Let’s have this conversation inside,” Sam suggested.

“Well the good news,” Dean said as they moved into Missouri’s front hall, “is that Marlene won’t be bothering anyone anymore.”

“Dean,” Sam said.

“A demon killed her,” Dean went on. “That’s part one of the bad news.”

Missouri’s anger vanished instantaneously as a series of emotions flickered across her face - confusion, surprise, and fear.

“A demon?” she repeated, looking to Sam for confirmation. At Sam’s nod, she asked, “When did this happen?”

“Night before last,” Sam said. “At our place.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Missouri said. “Are you boys alright?”

“Let me get back to you on that,” Sam said.

Missouri made a pained sound and pulled him down into a tight embrace. Then she brought her other arm up and pulled Dean in, too. He squeezed her back, a little surprised at how much comfort he derived from a single hug. He buried his nose in her shoulder and surreptitiously inhaled the scent of lavender.

“A demon,” Missouri said again when she finally let them go. “I can’t believe it! Why on earth would one be here in Lawrence of all places?”

“That’s part two of the bad news,” Sam said. “We think it’s what killed our mom.”

Missouri’s hand flew to her mouth in shock.

“The night before last was the second,” she realized.

“The anniversary, yeah,” Dean said.

“You don’t think…”

“We don’t know,” Sam said. “And Dad’s not answering his phone. We went and visited a guy he knows yesterday and got a few things for protection, though.”

Missouri shook her head in disbelief.

“That thing I sensed all those years ago...” she said to herself. She took a deep, shuddering breath, clearly recalling something from that night. Whatever it was, it unsteadied her. “I need to sit down.”

“We’ve got some stuff for you,” Sam said, following her into the living room. “A pendant to prevent possession, and some holy water. Also, with your permission, I’d like to put something called a devil’s trap under the carpet at the front and back doors. If a demon walks into it, they’ll be stuck.”

“Are you saying you think this thing will come after me?” Missouri asked. She sank down onto the sofa, leaning hard on its arm. “Why would it do that?”

“I don’t know, Missouri,” Sam said softly. “But it would make me feel better. Please.”

Missouri nodded her assent.

“Can I get you something, Missouri?” Dean asked, examining her carefully. She wasn’t as freaked out as Sam had been the other night, but he was still worried. “Tea, maybe?”

Missouri snorted.

“There’s some whiskey in the cupboard, there,” she said. “You can get me that.”

“That sounds like a great idea,” Dean said. “I think I’ll join you.”

He fetched the bottle and a set of tumblers from the cupboard and poured everyone a generous glass.

“Thank you, honey,” Missouri said, accepting hers. “You said your dad’s not answering his phone?”

“His hunting pal, Bobby, he said he hadn’t heard from him recently, either,” Dean confirmed. Then, quietly, he confessed, “I’m starting to worry that something bad might have happened.”

“Well, there’s an easy way to check on that, at least,” Missouri said. She glanced at Sam. “You know where everything is?”

Sam nodded. He stood up and left the room. When he came back, he had a basin with water in it and a bundle under his arm, wrapped in a cloth.

“What are you doing?” Dean asked, watching him set everything up on the coffee table.

“Scrying,” Sam said. He set up and lit four candles with a match, one by one. “Just to see if he’s still alive. I’ve done it a couple of times before.”

He pulled out his athame and pricked the tip of one finger with his blade. Then he closed his eyes and began to chant in Latin under his breath. When the chant was finished, he opened his eyes and squeezed a droplet of blood into the basin of water. Dean leaned forward to watch.

As he did so, the water began to pulse. A rhythm appeared, the ripples moving clearly outward, as if in response to some invisible touch. Like a heartbeat, Dean realized. He glanced up to look at Sam, only to find his brother frowning in confusion. Dean looked at Missouri, but she looked equally perplexed.

“What?” Dean asked, glancing between them. “Is that bad?”

“No,” Sam said. “It’s just...I’ve never been able to scry him this easily before.”

“I’ve never seen you scry  _ anyone _ this well,” Missouri added. “And neither have I, for that matter.”

Sam stared down at the pulsing in the basin with a strange expression on his face until it stopped at last and the water cleared.

“So?” Dean prompted.

“He’s fine, as far as I can tell,” Sam said. He shook himself out of whatever momentary reverie had grabbed him. “I can try tracking him later, if it’ll even work, but now at least we know he’s alive.”

Dean nodded slowly. It was a relief, of course, to know that their dad was alright, but…

“Then why the hell isn’t he picking up his phone?” Dean asked.

Sam merely shrugged. 

The water had given him no answer to that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this one's a little slow but there are a lot of things I have to set up. It's all part of a greater plan.... It will all come together in the end........... Also I promise Castiel is really in this fic and that it's really Destiel. HEAVILY so in fact LMFAO. I PROMISE. I'M NOT LYING.
> 
> Chapter title is 'The Seeker' by The Who.


	6. Flaming Telepaths

Two months came and went with no call from their dad. 

Sam scryed for him three more times and tried to track him once. The scrying rituals were all successful - somewhere out there, their dad was still alive - but the tracking spell failed as it always had before. Dean tried calling occasionally, but John never picked up, and Dean didn’t leave any more messages. Clearly, it didn’t work.

They heard nothing from the demon, either, but this silence brought little comfort. It had waited twenty-two years already, after all.

The threat of its return and the mystery of what it had done to Sam, combined with the puzzle of their missing father, hung over Sam and Dean like a sword of Damocles throughout the holiday season. Sam added devil’s traps to the store and apartment, but there was little else they could do to prepare themselves. Once or twice a week, he went up to Bobby’s place to flip through his books, searching for anything that might be of use. Bobby himself had plenty to add that had been gained through sheer experience, but there were limits even to his knowledge. He was willing to help, though, and the stories he had to tell about John were illuminating, if not particularly flattering.

“A damn fine hunter,” was Bobby’s assessment of John. “Maybe the best that’s ever been. They call people heroes for doing less than he does on the average weekend. But would I invite him out for drinks with the boys? Not unless I thought ‘the boys’ might actually be monsters in disguise. And then maybe only if I really didn’t like ‘em.”

Dean, on the other hand, was determined not to let anything ruin his favorite time of the year - the cooking holidays.

Thanksgiving, of course, was the big one. 

Dean and Missouri spent the week leading up to it holed up in her kitchen together, pouring over recipes and making plans. They pulled the ice chest down out of the attic for the turkey, a massive eighteen pound bird which was almost too big for the regular freezer, and argued at length about what kind of cranberry sauce to make. Eventually they compromised, and decided to have two - one classic and one with ginger. They came back from their big shopping trip not only laden with enough food to make dinner for a small army, but also with pie tins and cookie cutters and patterned wax paper and, of all things, a lazy susan.

(They always got carried away when they went shopping together, though. It was how Dean had ended up with a brand new Harley Davidson for his first bike and, more recently, a Kitchenaid standing mixer. Sam thought it was probably only through sheer luck that Dean had never crashed the bike, but he treated both machines like they were his children. Once, after a particularly delicious homemade chocolate mousse, Sam had even caught Dean planting a kiss on top of the mixer’s red casing.)

When Turkey Day finally came around, Missouri’s kitchen filled with talking, laughter, music from the radio, and, most of all, the smell of cooking, as she and Dean held court, twirling around each other in an almost coordinated dance. Sam and the others - James and Tess and Patience and Dede and Dede’s cousin from out of town - were banished to watch from the hallway, sitting in chairs dragged in from the dining room. 

James had his hand smacked by Dean for sticking a finger in the mashed potatoes - buttery and smooth with garlic and rosemary mixed in. Patience was allowed to help by stirring the gravy for a short turn. The alcohol poured freely, and by the time dinner was served, everyone was floating on cloud nine, although the table might have creaked under the weight of so many platters.

Dessert, of course, was Dean’s famous apple pie. Nobody in the world made pie that tasted better. When Sam took a bite, it was like coming home - warm and soft and flaky and sweet. Everything in the world would be alright, he thought, so long as Dean was still able to peel an apple and roll out dough.

Nothing could ruin Thanksgiving in Lawrence, Kansas. Not even a demon. Not that year, anyway.

Christmas, on the other hand, had always carried with it a somewhat sad and awkward tinge for the Winchester brothers. Whether or not their dad actually managed to show, the memory of his absence lingered like a Dickensian spirit, rattling chains at all hours of the day. No amount of spiked eggnog and honeyed ham and candy canes could really make up for the way the fog of their strained relationship drifted about the town, trailing after Sam and Dean like a particularly tenacious elephant, yearning to be addressed. That year, with so much up in the air, the hole where John might have stood loomed even larger.

As they got older, the sting of it had faded more and more, though. Patience’s birth had helped most of all. Now that she was old enough to really understand the holiday and look forward to things like Santa and presents, they poured all their attention into catering to her. It was her holiday, and they did everything they could to infuse December with the magic of the season, both real and imagined.

Dean went over to Tess and James’s house one afternoon to help her bake and build a gingerbread house - she had recently seen  _ Finding Nemo  _ and insisted on making all the gingerbread people into gingerbread fish. Sam came over another day to dutifully transcribe her dictated letter to Santa. She had insisted the task be completed by Sam, who was a witch and therefore must know Santa personally, at least according to her four-year-old logic. Sam took his duty very seriously, and slipped the letter back to a beaming Tess with a wink when they were finished.

Dede volunteered to take Patience caroling and dragged Sam and Dean along, even though neither of them could carry a tune. Dean snuck little alcohol minis of Fireball into his pockets beforehand and he and Sam got sloshed enough along the way that they belted out ‘Hark! The Herald Angels Sing’ without reservation, and almost without irony. Dede and James agreed that they had set a terrible example for Patience - except that Dede said it with a smile.

Between all these things - the family, the food, the falling snow that dampened everything into a soft and gentle silence, the warmth of a blanket and a fire, the scream of joy from Patience on Christmas morning when she opened the exact Tumble Time Tigger she had asked Santa for - they almost managed to relax and forget their problems as the New Year approached.

Then, on December 30th, Sam had another dream.

He didn’t wake Dean with yelling this time. Instead, he startled awake almost silently from where he’d been napping on the couch in their living room. The book he’d been reading - a novel Tess had given him for Christmas - fell from his lap onto the ground with a thump that had him jumping a second time.

He struggled to reorient himself for a moment. The world felt strangely skewed, like he couldn’t quite tell whether he was still dreaming. 

Dean was in the kitchen, humming as he putzed about making dinner. Out the window, Sam could see the dark sky, too cloudy for stars, and the rooftops of the neighboring buildings. It was snowing. Fat flakes pressed up against the glass where they melted at once, trickling down the pane in thick rivulets. Outside, the world was quiet and calm.

Sam stood up and wandered blearily into the kitchen.

“I just had a dream,” he said, leaning against the door frame.

Dean immediately looked up from the garlic he’d been crushing.

“Another one?” he asked sharply. “The same as before?”

“No, it was different,” Sam said. “There was this...girl. Two girls. They were out walking in the park. One of them reached out to hold the other’s hand, and when the second girl took it, there was this spark between them, and the first girl suddenly fell over. Dead. She just...died.”

“That’s...weird,” Dean said. He resumed crushing the garlic. “But no demons or fire?”

Sam shook his head.

“But it felt the same,” he said. “Like it was really happening. I don’t know. Maybe it was just a dream this time.”

“Hm. Maybe.”

Sam reached up and rubbed at the anti-possession tattoo underneath his shirt, as if to reassure himself that it was still there.

“What if it was a premonition, though?” he asked. Worry itched at his brain. “What if some girl out there is going to accidentally kill someone by holding her hand?”

“Did you recognize the girls?”

“No, total strangers.”

“What about where they were?” Dean asked. He picked up the crushed garlic with the edge of his knife and dropped it into a pan on the stove, where it hissed and began to cook in the bubbling oil. “Any landmarks or anything?”

“Um,” Sam said. He tried to remember. “Lots of buildings. A city, I think. They were in a park, but I couldn’t see any signs. I could see cars passing on the street nearby and heard an airplane going overhead. Nothing sticks out in my mind, though. It could’ve been anywhere.”

“Then I don’t see what you can do about it, to be honest,” Dean said. “Put out an APB on a couple of lesbians on a date?”

“But someone’s going to die, Dean.” He leaned his head back against the wall and stared up at the ceiling, mind reeling. “I just watched someone die. Again.”

A long moment of silence followed.

“You okay?” Dean asked.

“Not really,” Sam said. “Why is this happening to me, Dean? The demon, its blood, these dreams -”

“Hey,” Dean said. He turned off the stove with a click and threw the towel he’d been holding the pan with over his shoulder as he turned to face Sam. “We don’t know that this is anything. If what you saw was real, then it means someone out there can kill people by touching them. That’s crazy, right? Tell me you know that’s crazy.”

“It is, but so is everything else,” Sam said. “What if it’s real? We didn’t know that the first dream was anything, either.”

“So what do you want to do?” Dean asked. “Tell me, and we’ll do it.”

Sam shrugged. He looked down at his hands, running his left thumb over one of the little green snakes tattooed up to his knuckles on his right hand. It shivered slightly under his touch, ready to be of use.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“The minute you have a dream where you recognize something,” Dean said, “I am on board. I do not need to be told twice that something is a sign of bad things to come. We’ll do whatever we can to prevent what you see. But this - there’s nothing you can do, Sam. You’ve got to chalk it up to a nightmare and move on. If those girls are real, you’re about as responsible for it as I am for all the kids starving to death in third world countries. It sucks that it’s happening, but it is what it is.”

“Yeah,” Sam conceded. “Still.” 

He couldn’t seem to shake the image of the girl lying there on the wet concrete, eyes empty, just as Marlene’s had been, just as Dean’s had been in his first nightmare. The other girl had started yelling, then crying. She’d dropped to her knees like she wanted to check the dead girl’s pulse, or shake her shoulders, or touch her, or something, but her hands had hovered over the body instead, trembling. It was like she was scared that by touching the girl she’d killed, she’d do something even worse.

“You promise if I see something, and we can do something about it, we will?” Sam asked.

“I promise,” Dean said. He turned the stove back on, reaching for a spoon to stir the garlic browning in the pan.

“Okay,” Sam sighed.

Dean looked over his shoulder to eye Sam, as if he was considering something else. But all he said was, “I’m making stir fry for dinner. Set the table?”

“Sure.”

Sam tried to put the dead girl out of his mind.

He had the dream two more times before it went away. He tried not to think about what that meant. Despite Dean’s reassurances, he felt guilty. Maybe there was something he could have done, somewhere he could have looked, a spell he could have cast… But it was too late now. Whatever had happened, had happened. All he could do was move on and hoped it didn’t happen again.

It did, however. And the next dream that came, late in January, was impossible to ignore - it involved their childhood home.

][

“Your old house?” Missouri asked. “But I don’t understand. It’s been silent for years. There’s never been a problem there before.”

She and Dede were sitting in Sam and Dean’s living room after the store was closed for the day, the evening after Sam’s dream about the house. Dede had been with Missouri when they called, and insisted on coming along, just in case there was anything she could do to help.

She was currently laying out tarot cards on the coffee table - just a three card spread. Sam was watching her out of the corner of his eye, because she was acting overly concerned with this task, shuffling and reshuffling the deck as she laid out spread after spread. The cards currently resting before her were the ace of swords, the eight of wands, and Judgement. Sam couldn’t think of anything particularly bad or even noteworthy about this arrangement, but Dede was frowning like something in it was bothering her.

“It sold recently, didn’t it?” Dean asked. “We looked online.”

“Yes, but not for any bad reason that I know of,” Missouri said. “The couple living there moved to Arkansas, I think. I didn’t know them, not personally, although I kept an eye out for anything strange happening. They seemed like perfectly ordinary people.”

“And the new owner?” Dean asked. “Do you know anything about her?”

“Well, she’s a single mother,” Missouri said. “That’s about it. She may have brought something with her from wherever it is she moved from, I suppose.”

“She has kids?” Sam asked, tearing his eyes away from Dede. “How old?”

“Young, I think.”

“Could it be the demon?” Sam asked. “Could it be after them?” The way it was after me, he didn’t add.

Had what happened to him and their mom been about the house they were living in at the time? But then, why come back when he was older? Why come back now?

“What did you say was happening in your dream?” Dede asked, picking the tarot cards back up and returning them to the deck. “You were out on the sidewalk and she was inside, banging on the window and yelling.”

“Yeah, it was the top floor,” Sam confirmed. “The middle window.”

“And you didn’t see anyone else?” Dede asked.

“No,” Sam said. “The woman, she looked over her shoulder, but if she was looking at someone I didn’t see them. Why?”

“Hm,” Dede said. “Just a feeling I have, as if there was someone missing from your story.”

“Like who? Her kids? The demon?”

Dede shook her head. 

“My sense of it isn’t that strong.”

She shuffled the deck a few times, then drew the top card. Her eyebrows pinched together and she made a sound of frustration.

“What?” Sam asked. “What is it?”

“Nothing relevant, I don’t think,” Dede said, shuffling whatever card she’d drawn away. She set the deck aside. “Are you planning to go over there, then? Take a look?”

“We’ll have to,” Dean said. “That family is in danger.”

“Do you want me to come with you?” Missouri asked. “I could get a read of the place, see if I sense anything new.”

“No, you’d better not,” Sam told her. “It’s too dangerous. I’ll take my pendulum and try to do a spirit reading myself.”

Missouri scowled.

“So it’s too dangerous for me, but not for you?” she asked. “When a demon has come for you twice now?”

“Missouri,” Sam begged. “Please.”

“She’s right, though,” Dean said. “Maybe it’s better I handle this one alone.”

“No way,” Sam said. “Not a chance, Dean. You really think you’re going to leave me behind, after everything? Look, I’m already on this thing’s radar, and it was my vision. I should be there. But there’s no reason anyone else has to put themselves in the line of fire.” At Dean’s continued frown, he said, “If you try to leave me behind, I’m just going to follow you. It’s up to you whether or not you want me where you can keep an eye on me.”

“Geeze, alright, fine,” Dean said. “Come risk your neck if it means that much to you. We’ll go tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Dede repeated. “But…”

Dean shrugged and stuffed his hands into his pockets.

“It can’t wait,” he said. “Maybe we can get it done quickly and still have time to meet you for drinks.”

Sam and Dede exchanged uncertain looks.

Missouri let out an exasperated huff.

“You’re both martyrs of the worst kind,” she declared. “Why does everything have to fall on your shoulders? Why can’t you leave this to someone else? The police?”

“The  _ police? _ ” Sam and Dean echoed, like she was insane.

“Missouri, they’d get themselves killed,” Sam said as gently as possible.

“Yeah, and everybody else,” Dean added. “Can you imagine a beat cop trying to arrest a demon? One second everything is copacetic, next thing you know we’ve got shots fired, officer down, hostages suspected, casualties unknown, helicopters in the air, and a spot on the six o’clock news.”

“Dude, you watch way too much  _ Cops _ ,” Sam said.

“Point is,” Dean went on, “we can handle this ourselves. Just the two of us. We’ve memorized exorcisms and everything, haven’t we, Sam?”

“I still don’t like it,” Missouri said. “But I can see you’ve made up your minds. Stubborn idiots.” She stood up. “At least call if anything happens, won’t you? And if it doesn’t. I don’t want to be left to worry this time.”

“We will,” Sam swore.

“And you,” she said, leveling a finger at Dean, “had better not hang up on me again. Don’t think I’ve forgotten about that.”

“I know, Missouri,” Dean said. “You only tell me about three times a week.”

“Clearly you need reminding, since you did it in the first place.”

She and Dede gathered their coats and readied themselves to leave. Sam followed them to the top of the stairs as Dean cleared up the coffee cups and retreated to the kitchen, muttering under his breath about honest mistakes and unfair tyrants. Halfway down the steps, Dede suddenly stopped, then turned around and started back up.

“Wait, Sam,” she said.

Sam leaned over the rail. “What is it?”

“The tarot,” she said, wrapping her shawl tightly around her body. “I’ve been doing readings for you boys. I know it’s rude to do it without asking, but I’ve been worried. The thing is...every time I do, the same thing comes up.”

“What, the Tower?” Sam asked, ready for more bad news. “Ten of swords?”

“No,” Dede said. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a card, and held it toward him. “It’s Judgement.”

Sam took the card. It depicted the Archangel Gabriel, wreathed in clouds, sounding his trumpet and calling the dead up from their graves. The beginning of the Last Judgement. A crowd of corpses raised their arms to the heavens in exultation, their faces lit up with joy. The angel’s youthful face, by contrast, was neutral. Sam tried to remember what the card’s various meanings could be.

“An awakening,” he suddenly realized.

“Sometimes,” Dede said. “Other things, too. But ‘awakening’ is what came to mind, isn’t it? Does it mean something to you?”

“Maybe,” Sam said. “It’s something someone said to me recently, that’s all.”

He shook himself and made to give the card back, but Dede held her hand up, stopping him.

“Keep it,” she said. “I have a feeling you might need it later.”

“But your deck will be missing a card.”

Dede laughed.

“Maybe I’ll stop drawing it now,” she said. She smiled. “Stay safe, Sam. You and Dean, both. I hope I see you tomorrow night, but if not, tell Dean…”

“Yeah,” Sam said, tucking the card away. “Yeah, I will.”

][

The next day, they headed over to the house together, a tense silence in Sam’s truck. Dean was preoccupied with reading and responding to text messages for most of the trip, so he was caught completely off guard when Sam suddenly slammed on the brakes, sending him jerking forward in his seat.

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Sam said.

“What?” Dean asked, straightening up. “What is it?”

He looked out through the windshield and saw at once what it was that had caused Sam’s distress. There, parked just down the street from the house they had grown up in, was a black Impala.

Dean swallowed.

“Tell me you didn’t, Dean,” Sam said. He sounded desperate. “Tell me you didn’t call him.”

“Of course I did!” Dean said. “The night you dreamt about the house! I told him that the thing that killed Mom might be there. What else was I supposed to do? We’ve been trying to get in contact with him, haven’t we?”

“No,  _ you’ve _ been trying to get in contact with him,” Sam corrected. “I’ve been doing just fine without him here to screw everything up.”

He jerked the truck into reverse.

“What are you doing?” Dean asked.

“Leaving,” Sam said.

“What?” Dean reached out to clamp a hand down on the steering wheel. “Stop it! We came here to help these people, didn’t we?”

“Yeah, and now Dad can do it,” Sam said. “He’s a hunter. It’s what he does. Just leave it to him and…”

He trailed off as the driver’s side door of the Impala swung open and their dad stepped out. He slammed the door back shut behind himself and then leaned against the side of the car, hands stuffed into his coat’s pockets, watching them expectantly.

“God, Dean, I really hate you right now,” Sam said bitterly.

“Fine, hate me all you want,” Dean spat back. “At least let me out first if you’re going. I’m not running away.”

Sam clenched and unclenched his jaw. He put the truck back in drive and pulled forward until he could park it behind the Impala. Dean imagined that he was suppressing the urge to rear-end the other car. If he was, he succeeded, although probably not by much.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry,” Dean said. “It’s not like I knew he’d actually show. He never answered before.”

“Whatever,” Sam said.

They got out of the truck.

“Boys,” John greeted them as they approached.

“Dad,” Dean said. “Hey. You got my message.”

John nodded once, then turned to look at the house where Mary had died. His gaze lingered there for a long time, like he was seeing past the facade, into the rooms and hallways and nooks and crannies of the place, into the past that had once filled it and which had long since gone up in smoke. Finally, he looked back at them.

“The thing that killed your mom isn’t here,” he said.

“How do you know that?” Dean asked. “You’ve been inside already?”

“Yeah, and while we’re on the subject, thanks for telling us about the demon in the first place,” Sam snapped.

John’s gaze cut to Sam.

“You didn’t need to know,” he said. “Knowing puts you in danger.”

“Is that right?” Sam asked. “Because it sure as hell didn’t keep us safe.”

John straightened up, his hands falling out of his pockets. Dean edged forward a bit, ready to put himself between his dad and his brother if necessary. But neither of them made any move to get closer to the other.

“I know it’s not the demon because there haven’t been any omens,” John said to Dean. “It was the first thing I looked for when I got your message. Before a demonic attack, there are always signs - electrical storms, cattle mutilations, that sort of thing. There’s been nothing like that in Lawrence for the past few weeks. When I was looking, though, I did notice something. There  _ were _ signs - back in November. And now you know something about demons. So what happened?”

It was his tone that got to Dean - like it was some kind of gotcha. Like they’d done something wrong, hidden something from him. Lied.

“I called you,” Dean said. “I called you and you didn’t pick up.”

“You didn’t say anything about a demon in your message,” John said.

“I said it was important,” Dean said. “That should have been enough.”

They held eye contact for a long time, neither of them speaking, but neither of them willing to back down. Finally, John shook his head, like he couldn’t figure out where he’d gone wrong.

“I’m here now,” he said. “What happened?”

“The demon that killed Mom attacked us,” Sam said. “Is that what you want to hear?”

John jerked upright, his spine going ramrod straight. Something flashed in his eyes - fire, maybe.

“Yellow-eyes?” he asked sharply. “The yellow-eyed demon was  _ here? _ It spoke to you? What did it say?”

Sam and Dean exchanged confused glances.

“No,” Sam said slowly. “It didn’t have yellow eyes. It had black eyes.”

John slumped again.

“Then it wasn’t the one that killed Mary,” he said. He had obviously lost the intense spark of interest from a moment before, but he asked anyway, “You said it attacked you? What did it do?”

Dean opened his mouth to tell him, but Sam got there first.

“Not much,” he said. “Just tossed us around a bit. Possessed and killed one of our customers. Why would it come after us? Do you know?”

John stared at Sam for a second, evaluating him silently. Sam stared back without so much as a blink or a flinch. Both of them were fishing for something, Dean could see, trying to figure out how much the other knew without asking. It was in their posture. Two dogs circling each other before an attack, sizing one another up. He wondered if they realized how much they resembled each other when they did that. He looked away, abruptly sick to his stomach.

“Forget the damn demon for a second,” he said, if only to make them stop. “Even if it’s not here in the old house, there are still people in trouble. Children. Let’s focus on helping them.”

“If there is anything, that is,” John said. “I’m curious to hear how you boys stumbled across this. There hasn’t been anything in the news or police reports. What makes you so sure there’s something going on?”

“Missouri keeps an eye on the place,” Sam lied seamlessly. “She said she sensed something.”

“Huh,” was all John said in response. “Well. Let’s take a look, then.”

He walked around to the back of the Impala and popped the trunk, then the hidden compartment - just enough so that he could pull out a handgun, a knife, and a boxy looking machine.

“Are you serious right now?” Sam asked, watching him. “You’re taking a gun in there? With kids?”

“What’s the problem exactly, Sam?” John asked, sliding a clip into the gun and closing the compartment again. “Your brother’s armed.”

Sam’s gaze moved to Dean, looking betrayed.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Dean said defensively. “We thought the demon might be here.”

He’d gotten better at hiding the gun, at least, if Sam hadn’t noticed. He’d ordered a concealed carry holster online and started wearing it most places. Not to Missouri’s houses, and not when he knew Patience would be around, but most other places.

“And what even is that?” Sam went on, pointing to the radio-like instrument John had pulled out. It had an antenna. “Some kind of Geiger counter? You think the house is radioactive?”

John paused, examining Sam’s hand as it gestured toward him.

“EMF detector,” he said. “It picks up electromagnetic fields, which can indicate the presence of spirits.” He held it out for Sam to take.

Sam reached for it, his natural curiosity overcoming his aversion to interacting with their dad. As he did so, however, the EMF detector was pulled back. John reached out and snagged Sam's hand, instead. Then he flipped it over to bare the wrist.

“Got a new one, I see,” he said, running his thumb over the small black seal printed over the pulse point there. “You're still doing this?” He looked at Dean. “And you're still letting him?”

Sam yanked his arm back.

“Dean doesn't  _ let  _ me do anything,” he said at the same time Dean said, “It's harmless, Dad. Plenty of hunters use seals and stuff. This is no different.”

“Harmless, huh?” John asked. “Because that looked to me like a summoning seal. You summoning something, son?”

“No, he's not,” Dean said at the same time Sam said, “My knife.”

John stared blankly at Sam.

“It's for my knife,” Sam said. “If I lose it in a fight I can call it back. It's just a simple bit of magic.”

John let out a humorless laugh and rubbed at the stubble on his chin.

“A simple bit of magic,” he repeated, like it was the punchline to a particularly funny joke. “It's never just a simple bit of magic. And since when are you getting into knife fights anyway, Sammy?”

“I'm not,” Sam said at the same time Dean said, “He's not.”

They shared a glance.

“Look, it's just in case, okay?” Sam said. “Lay off.”

“It’s a slippery slope, Sam,” John said. “You’re messing with powers beyond your understanding.”

“I know what I’m doing,” Sam said.

“They all think that,” John said. “They all think they have it under control, up until the exact moment they realize it was someone else pulling the strings the whole time. And then it’s too late.”

He slammed the trunk of the Impala shut.

“If you’re not careful, Sam, someday there will be someone hunting you.”

“You mean you,” Sam said roughly. “You’ll hunt me, that’s what you’re saying. You’d kill your own son for being a witch.”

“Stop it!” Dean snapped. “Both of you!”

It was a miracle no one had come out of the house to stare at the commotion they were making on the front walk. How they were going to talk their way into this woman’s home, Dean had no idea. They could barely talk their way up the front steps.

“Everything I have done,” John said, ignoring Dean, “has been to keep you two safe. Don’t you ever doubt that, Sam.”

“It’s a little late for that,  _ Dad _ ,” Sam said.

He turned around and started heading back toward the truck, shoulders hunched and head hung low. Dean jogged after him.

“Hold on, where are you going?” he asked, catching up to him. He had to speed walk to match Sam’s long strides. “We still have to help these people. You’re the one who was all gung-ho about doing this in the first place, remember?”

“That was before he showed up,” Sam said. “I can’t do this, Dean. I really can’t. Let’s just let him deal with whatever’s in the house and go home, okay? We can get drinks with Dede like we were supposed to. The only thing that’s going to happen if we stick around is John Winchester bossing us around and making us feel like failures for not being his perfect little soldiers. You really want to go through that again? Today?”

Dean hesitated. He looked over his shoulder at John, watching them from a distance with a tight frown. Dean looked helplessly back at Sam.

“It’s Dad,” he said weakly. “Sam, it’s Dad.”

Sam shook his head.

“You always do this,” he said. “Every time. Dad shows up and you just...fall in line, start following him around, trying to be just like him.” He wiped his hand over his face tiredly, then pulled his keys out of his pocket and opened the truck door. “If you want to do this to yourself, that’s your choice. But you can’t make me watch and you can’t make me participate. You know where I’ll be. Call me if you need a ride.”

With that, he climbed into the cab and slammed the door.

Dean backed away as Sam turned the ignition and pulled out of his parking spot. He watched the truck go past, and then disappear around the corner with Sam inside, gut sinking like a stone.

John came up to join Dean, laying a large hand on his shoulder.

“Sam will come around, Dean,” he said. “That kid has always been stubborn as hell, but he’s smart enough to see sense when he has to.”

What would you know? Dean thought.

He shook the angry words from his head and turned to face his father.

“So,” he said lightly. “What’s the plan?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is 'Flaming Telepaths' by Blue Oyster Cult, a song written by and for Sam Winchester: 
> 
> _Well I've opened up my veins too many times  
>  And the poison's in my heart and in my mind  
> Poison's in my bloodstream, poison's in my pride  
> I'm after rebellion, I'll settle for lies_
> 
> Additional note: I know in 13.3 "Patience" James says that Missouri was a hunter and she went off on hunting trips, but I think that's boring and turns the world into an identical mush where everyone either knows about the supernatural and hunts or is completely ignorant, so I've elected to ignore it. I think that's probably (?) clear in the way I've written this story but I figure I'd just say it here anyway.


	7. Fortunate Sons

**THEN**

Dean couldn’t get the memory of blood out of his mind. It was all he could think about since he’d come back from the hunt with his dad. Blood - everywhere.

It hung like a film over everything he saw, and when he closed his eyes, he watched as a sea of red so dark it was black swallowed the world. Sitting up at night, unable to sleep for fear of drowning, he told himself - I killed a monster. I saved lives. There's no reason for regret.

So why the hell was everything suddenly drenched in blood?

Sam was acting funny. 

He kept giving Dean covert looks when he thought the older boy wasn’t paying attention. He was quieter, too, and not in the moody, withdrawn teenage way he usually was, like puberty was giving him a constant swirly. It was more than general self-pity that he had going recently, but something focused and intense, like he was turning an idea over in his head, repeating it, studying its sharp angles. He’d started spending more and more time at Madam’s, too, sometimes taking his bicycle and crossing town on his own without asking for a ride or even bothering to tell Dean or Missouri where he was going.

It was like Sam was avoiding Dean all of a sudden. It was like he could see what Dean saw - blood, soaked into his skin, into his clothes, staining him with the indelible mark of what he’d done.

Maybe that was for the best. Maybe that word ‘blood’ had dripped its way down the family tree and infected Sam, too. Maybe when Dean’s heart thumped ‘blood blood blood’ in his ears under the too-hot spray of the shower, Sam was in his room staring up at the plastic glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to the ceiling and watching the constellations rearrange themselves into a new astrology: B-L-O-O-D. Written on the walls.

I saved lives, Dean told himself again and again. I did the right thing.

What he had done - it was what he had to do. There were things out there that could hurt Sam, and preventing that from happening had always been Dean’s job. If something happened on his watch because he hadn’t been prepared, then who was to blame? Who would his dad and Missouri look to for answers? It wasn’t even a choice.

So why did it feel like he’d already fucked everything up?

Missouri knew, in the way she always knew, how unhappy he was. No matter how hard he tried, it was impossible to hide it.

She hadn’t said anything more about the hunt itself. Dean found himself intensely grateful for that. He didn’t think he could withstand another argument with her, nor endure her disappointment. She watched him, though, and kept Dean close, hovering nearby with tea and snacks and a soft hand at the back of his neck or shoulder. Every time Dean caught a waft of lavender scent or felt her warm arm press up against his, he could have sworn that a bit of that blood dripped clean.

Dean wasn’t sure what would have happened if Missouri hadn’t been there in those hazy, nightmarish days after his first and last hunt. More to the point, he wasn’t sure what would have happened if she hadn’t caught him sneaking a drink from the whiskey bottle one night. A mess of a whole different kind, probably.

When she caught him with the bottle, standing in the circle of light thrown in from the hall like a kid choking up at the talent show, Dean had a brief, frozen moment where he thought he saw his life flash before his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Dean had rushed frantically to say. “I’m sorry, Missouri. I know I let you down.”

But Missouri didn’t yell. She didn’t even get mad. Instead, she reached out and pulled him into the tightest hug he could ever remember receiving.

“You have never let me down,” she’d told him through her tears. “I love you, Dean. Everything is going to be okay.”

And Dean had caved to a moment of weakness and let himself be held.

That was Missouri all over, though. She always knew when it was time to set anger aside. Dean had learned that from her, he thought, and thank god he had.

But later on, Dean would blame himself for this, too - that he and Missouri had been so focused on each other, neither one of them had noticed what was happening with Sam. Not until it was almost too late. Even then, it was a close thing.

It was only sheer luck that had Dean knocking on Sam’s door that night. He’d been looking for his book, the Stephen King one about the vampires. His taste for it had fallen off somewhat since the hunt, but Jacob was starting to harass him about giving it back, and Dean wasn’t going to be the kind of asshole who borrowed something and then never returned it (unlike some people). When he went to grab it that night, however, the book had gone missing from its hiding spot under his mattress. After searching for a few fruitless minutes, Dean remembered that Sam had been reading it the night of the hunt. Maybe he’d found and taken it again.

“Sam?” he called, rapping his knuckles on his brother’s door. “I told you not to go in my room. Where’s my book?”

There was no response. Dean knocked again, harder this time.

“Seriously, Sam, give it back,” he said.

Still only silence.

Giving up, Dean opened the door. “Sam, I swear -”

Sam wasn’t there.

Dean blinked in surprise and looked around. 

It was late - nearly eleven at night. He couldn’t think of where else Sam should be. Definitely not out somewhere without Dean’s knowledge. He ducked back out into the hall to search for him, but Sam wasn’t in the bathroom or the kitchen or the living room, either. He returned to Sam’s room, a swell of panic building in his throat.

Sam’s backpack was gone, he realized. His backpack and - Dean rifled through the desk. His backpack and the athame Madam had given him for his birthday and a whole bunch of his other witch junk - herbs and crystals and candles and things like that.

“Missouri!” Dean yelled up the stairs. “Missouri, where’s Sam?”

Missouri appeared at the top of the steps a moment later in her bathrobe and slippers, squinting down at him in confusion.

“What do you mean?” she asked. “He’s not in his room?”

Dean hadn’t waited a moment longer. Some kind of instinct had kicked in, a sixth sense cultivated from years of rubbing elbows with psychics and looking after his idiot brother. Missouri always knew. If Missouri didn’t know, it was because Sam didn’t want her to. After days of brooding, he’d snuck out in the middle of the night to cast some kind of spell. The sort of spell that had to be hidden from his family.

Spells like that were, in general, always bad ideas.

Dean ran to check the carport for Sam’s bike. Sure enough, it was gone. He went back inside only to grab Missouri’s keys from the hook by the backdoor and slip on his shoes.

“Dean?” Missouri asked, awake and alert now. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know, but I think Sam’s doing something stupid,” Dean said. “I don’t know where he is. Can you call around some of his friends’ places?”

“I’ll get the school directory,” Missouri said.

And then Dean was out the door, taking her cruddy old sedan in search of Sam.

The first place he checked was Madam’s, but the elderly woman’s house lights were all off and no one answered the door when he knocked. She was probably fast asleep. He checked Zara and Ted’s next, but they hadn’t seen Sam, and neither had Steven, who dreamily informed Dean that it wasn’t time for that yet, whatever that meant. James was annoyed at Dean’s interruption when he came by - his girlfriend, Tess, was over - but eased up when he realized Sam was missing and offered to help look. Dean sent him and Tess to search the University of Kansas campus, where Sam sometimes went to use the library. As a last ditch effort, Dean even went over to Dede’s, a college girl with psychic powers who Missouri had recently started mentoring, but that was a bust, too.

Finally, Dean began just driving up and down the streets, canvassing for any sign of his little brother. He drove past the park where Sam had lost his first tooth falling off the swing set. He drove past the corner store where they got ice pops in the summer when it was hot. He drove past the abandoned lot where they set off fireworks on New Year’s and the Fourth of July. He drove, at last, past the high school with its enormous football stadium where, for one year, he and Sam had sat on the bleachers every lunch sharing sandwiches and potato chips together.

It was there that he finally found it: Sam’s bike, lying abandoned in the parking lot.

Dean flew from the car, barely stopping to put it in park.

“Sam!” he yelled into the night. “Sam, where are you!”

The school was dark and shadowed, not a sign of life among its maze of buildings. Dean turned away from it and went instead toward the football stadium. The chain link fence was open. He hurried through the gap, then between the looming stands and out onto the field. There, in the middle of the astroturf, on his knees in a circle of flickering candlelight, was Sam.

He was chanting and holding up his athame. Blood was pouring from his nose, but Sam hardly seemed to notice. He was focused intently on the book that lay open on the grass before him. Dean couldn’t tell how he was reading from it - its pages were flipping wildly in a disembodied wind and black smoke was pouring out of it, obscuring and thick, building up in a cloud around Sam’s waist. 

One by one, the candles began to snuff out.

“ _ Sam! _ ”

Sam’s chanting faltered. His head whipped in Dean’s direction, terrified and pale. The blood didn’t stop pouring, slipping down his chin, dripping - red and thick. Blood. Sam’s blood.

Sam turned back to the book and began chanting louder. Faster. Hurrying to finish.

Dean threw himself across the field and tackled him without thinking. All he knew was that he had to stop the spell. The smoke, the wind, Sam’s blood, spilling everywhere, in a river, a torrent, a flood - it had to be stopped. Dean had to stop it. He was driven by pure adrenaline.

Sam screamed in anguish as they went rolling out of the circle, knocking over two of the candles and sending dishes filled with herbs and bones and other unidentifiable things flying through the air.

“Let me go!” he screamed, punching at Dean’s shoulder.

“What the hell are you doing?” Dean screamed back. “What the fuck is this, Sam?”

Sam fought him like a feral animal, scratching and biting, but he’d lost his athame in the fall. He was still much smaller than Dean at fourteen years old, not yet the giant he’d someday become, and some additional surge of strength had risen out of Dean from a well he hadn’t known existed. Like those people who lifted cars off of babies. He wasn’t letting go. Not for anything.

“Let me go!” Sam yelled again. “Let me finish it, Dean! Let me -”

Dean kept Sam pinned to his chest. He looked back at the ritual circle, trying to determine what damage, if any had been done. But the wind had settled, the remaining candles were still lit, and the black smoke was gone. The sharp scent of ozone that had moments ago filled the air had dissipated back into the mild smell of dirt and grass. Whatever it was Sam had been doing, it had failed.

Realizing that his struggle was futile, that even if he managed to slip free, the ritual was over, Sam’s shouts of anger turned to tears. He beat his fists at Dean’s chest, each punch filled with a vicious, trembling wrath. Dean could hardly feel it.

“ _ Why? _ ” Sam demanded. “Why did you have to stop me?”

“What were you doing, Sam?” Dean asked. His voice was shaking. He was afraid, he realized.

“I was making myself stronger!” Sam yelled. At last, the blood had stopped dripping from his nose. “I was going to -” He broke off into an ugly sob and went limp in Dean’s arms.

“Why the hell do you need to be strong?” Dean snapped. “You’re just a kid!”

“Because -”

The reason got lost in another loud wail.

“I’m the one who protects you!” Dean said. “That’s my job, not yours!”

“It's not fair!” Sam blubbered into Dean’s shoulder. “You'll die or leave or - don’t leave, Dean! I can protect myself. I can protect you, too. So don't go away like Dad!"

Dean clutched him tighter, fingers digging into Sam’s back, as if by holding onto Sam he could smother out the tremor in his own body. All around them in the grass were the scattered remains of the thing that Sam had almost done.

“I’m not going anywhere, Sammy,” Dean said.

“Promise me,” Sam said. “Promise you won’t leave.”

Dean bent his neck and pressed his forehead to the top of Sam’s head. He let out a deep, shuddering breath.

“I promise,” he said. “I promise.”

Sam didn’t stop crying for a long time. Dean didn’t let him go until he was done.

When the sobbing had finally stopped, and Dean felt steady enough to let Sam go, Dean reached up to wipe the tears and snot and blood off of Sam’s face with his sleeve. He ignored his own damp cheeks.

“Everyone’s looking for you,” Dean said quietly. “You scared the hell out of us.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam warbled, ducking his head. “Dean, I -”

“It’s okay,” Dean said. “Everything’s okay now. I’m not mad at you. Don’t you ever do that again, though, you hear? Whatever it was. If I’m not allowed to go, neither are you. You got that, Sammy? You got it? Don’t leave me alone.”

Sam nodded mutely and sniffled.

“I got it,” he said. “I won’t. So don’t go.”

Sitting there, on the brink of destruction, neither of them quite realized the extent of the damage that had been done, or the breadth of the disaster that had only narrowly been averted. They wouldn’t realize even that for a long, long time.

But for the moment, however, it was over.

In the aftermath, it was Dean who gathered up all of Sam’s things. Sam sat on the bleachers, wearing his brother’s jacket, gaze penitently lowered to the dirt. It was Dean who gathered up the candles and the dishes and the crystals and chicken bones and Sam’s athame and tossed them all in the backpack, not really caring to keep anything safe or whole. It was Dean who stooped to pick up the little black leather-bound book that Sam had been reading from, the one that would tell Dean exactly what it was that he’d interrupted.

When he raised it, there was a burnt patch in the astroturf underneath - just a small circle, barely larger than the book itself - and in his hands, the book throbbed with silent potential. There was nothing printed on the cover. Dean flipped it open to the first page.

In stark black letters were the words, ‘The Book of Self-Sacrifice.’

‘Anything can be had,’ the first line of text declared, ‘by giving something else up - blood, limb, soul, life. You choose the price, and you pay it.’

Dean felt like throwing up.

What part of himself had Sam planned to sacrifice? For power? For Dean?

Revolted, Dean snapped the book shut and made to toss it in with the rest. At the last moment, however, he stopped. He looked over at Sam. Sam was still staring at his knees. 

Dean had almost lost him. Dean had gone hunting to try to keep Sam safe and nearly lost him as a result.

Sam couldn’t get hurt. Not anymore, and especially not because of him. There was nothing he wouldn’t give to make it stop. That was his job.

So Dean tucked the book into the waistband of his jeans and hid it underneath his shirt.

Sam never asked about what happened to the Book of Self-Sacrifice after that. Neither did Madam, who Sam had apparently stolen it from using a charmed drawing of a snake. It was possible they both assumed that the other had it. It was just as likely that neither of them cared to think about it ever again. All that mattered was that it was gone.

It wasn’t, though.

That same night, Dean brought the book home. He lifted his mattress to hide it, only to draw up short. Lying there, right where he’d left it, was Jacob’s copy of  _ Salem’s Lot. _

Dean stared down at the book for a long time. Then he placed the Book of Self-Sacrifice next to it, lowered the mattress, and went to bed.

][

**NOW**

It turned out that you could convince just about anyone that you knew what you were doing when you had a clipboard in one hand and a tool bag in another. Dean didn’t think he’d ever have cause to use this information ever again, but he made a careful note of it anyway. Clipboards were relatively cheap as far as disguises went.

The woman who lived in their old house answered the door with a toddler perched on her hip and deep circles under her eyes. She looked harassed and skittish.

“If you’re here about the plumber, I already called and talked to your legal department,” she started.

“Juice!” the toddler greeted them.

“Uh, no, sorry ma’am,” John said. “We’re with the gas company. There have been some reports of faulty service in the neighborhood and we’re trying to work out if there’s a problem on our end or if it’s a manufacturing issue. Do you mind if we come in and take a look at your boiler?”

“A problem?” the woman repeated. “A problem with the gas, on top of everything else. You can’t be serious.”

“It might be nothing,” John said with an apologetic smile. “We won’t bill you for the evaluation or the maintenance if it is.”

Apparently ‘no charge’ was also an instant gateway to trust, because the woman sighed and let them in. It had been five minutes and Dean was already learning all sorts of new things. Days out with John Winchester were always educational like that. Sam was seriously missing out.

“It’s in the basement,” the woman said. “What kind of problems have people been having exactly?”

“Issues with the heat,” John said casually. “Drafts, cold spots, that sort of thing. Strange smells. The pipes have been making odd noises in some houses.”

“You mean that could be the gas?”

“It could be,” John said. “Have you experienced anything like that?”

She hadn’t set the toddler down, Dean noticed. She was clinging to him. Beyond the long blonde hair and the little boy, there wasn’t much resemblance to his mom, but there was enough similarity that it was vaguely uncomfortable.

“Yeah, all of that,” she said. “I was starting to think there might be rats in the walls. And then with the faulty electricity and the plumbing -”

“Right, you mentioned something about a plumber,” John said.

“The garbage disposal was acting up,” the woman said. “I called a guy to come fix it and it turned back on while his hand was inside."

“Oh, that’s just gnarly,” Dean said with a grimace.

Both she and John turned to look at him. The woman blinked in surprise. John’s face was void of emotion, which meant he was annoyed. Dean clamped his mouth back shut.

“Well, now I’m on the hook for damages unless I can get a lawyer,” the woman went on. “And just now, the strangest thing - but that couldn’t be the gas, I mean.” She threw one hand up in distress. “But if there’s a problem in this house that you can fix, I am all ears.”

“We’ll take a look and see what we can do,” John promised.

“Are you alright?” Dean asked her as his dad opened the door to the basement and flicked on the light. It didn’t seem like John was going to ask. “You seem...upset.”

“I’m fine,” the woman said. “Just a little stressed. Like I said, the house has issues.”

Dean nodded slowly. She was still holding the toddler, bouncing him almost absently, like a nervous tic. John was waiting for him, halfway down the steps.

“I’m Dean, by the way,” Dean said. “I think my dad here’s got the boiler. Is there anything else I can help you out with?”

“Jenny,” the woman introduced herself. But her brows scrunched up as she said it, and she glanced between him and John for a moment. “Wait a moment. Dean. And...I thought you looked familiar.” This last part she said to John. “Not Winchester?”

“How’d you know that?” John asked sharply.

“I found a bunch of photos in the basement just the other - are you really with the gas company?” Her voice went up an octave, edging toward shrill. “Is that why you’re here? You could have just -”

“Whoa, hang on a second,” Dean said. “It’s true we used to live here a long time ago, but that’s not why we came, scout’s honor. A job’s a job, no matter where you do it, right? You said you found photos?”

Jenny nodded. She was still eyeing them suspiciously.

“If you don’t mind,” John said, climbing back up the stairs, “could we take a look at those? We left after my wife, Mary, died. If there are any of her…”

The effect on Jenny was immediate. Her whole face shifted from wariness to sympathy. More than sympathy - empathy. Dean wondered if she had been through something similar lately, moving out here as a single mom.

“Of course,” she said. “They’re in the kitchen.”

The kitchen was filled with half unpacked boxes, some of them sitting on the table and some on the floor. Jenny put her son in a playpen to fetch the one containing the photos - older and more worn than the others - but she yo-yo’d back to him almost the moment she was done, as if afraid to let him out of her sight.

“I can’t believe it,” John said, opening the box. 

He took out a photo from the top of the pile and stared down at the image of him and Mary, smiling broadly out at the camera. After a moment, he passed it to Dean and picked up another, this one of little baby Sam, still with his eyes closed, wrapped in a hospital blanket and swaddled in someone’s - probably Mary’s - arms. Dean took the photo of his parents and examined it with wonder. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his dad smile like that.

“I had no idea these survived the fire,” John said.

“What fire?” a voice asked from the doorway.

They looked up to see a little girl standing there, her face serious.

“Sari,” Jenny said. It was hard to tell what emotion was in it - scolding, but also maybe relief.

“What fire?” the girl asked again.

Dean glanced at John.

“My wife, Dean’s mother…” John started. He stopped.

“There was a fire here when I was little,” Dean finished for him. “My mom died in it.”

The girl - Sari’s head snapped around to look at Jenny, eyes wide and afraid.

“You see?” she said. “I told you! I told you it was real! I told you and you didn’t believe me!”

“Sari,” Jenny said, this time plaintive. She looked back at John and Dean as if to apologize, but she looked just as frightened suddenly. “Is that true?”

“Did you see something?” John asked Sari. “What did you see? Tell me exactly.”

“You’re not from the gas company at all, are you?” Jenny asked.

“It’s like my son said,” John told her, “a job’s a job.”

But this was not a regular job, not even for John.

“I saw a ghost,” Sari said. “It was on fire.”

And then, just like the smile in the photograph, Dean saw something on his dad’s face that he couldn’t remember seeing there since the night his mom had died - fear.

“Dad,” Dean ventured slowly. “Is Mom a ghost?”

John didn’t answer. He was looking back down at the pictures, eyes distant.

“Hold on, there’s no such thing as ghosts,” Jenny said. “There is no way...there’s just no way. It’s not possible. You people are crazy.” She scooped the toddler back up into her arms. “I want you out of my house. Take your photos and go. Now.”

“Hang on, before you kick us out,” Dean said, holding up his hands. “Jenny - what happened to your son?”

Jenny’s brows scrunched together. She looked at the toddler, then back over her shoulder at the fridge. She bit her lip.

“He -” she began uncertainly, then stopped. “That was -” She opened her mouth, then closed it again.

“Juice!” the toddler said.

“...Do you think I can use a ghost as a legal defense?” Jenny asked.

][

Sam felt like a dick almost the moment he left Dean standing in the middle of the street, shrinking in his rearview mirror. Even so, there was no power on earth that could have made him turn around. Not with his Dad standing there.

Immovable rock, meet unstoppable force.

He told himself that he wasn’t running away. This was what mature adults did when they had differences with one another - they took space, went to calm down, and didn’t stick around for the inevitable blow out. Sam was a mature adult. That was the whole crux of the issue: He wasn’t some little kid who didn’t know what he was doing. Not anymore. So. Not running away.

That being said, he didn’t actually have a clue where he was headed. They’d already closed the store for the day, intending to be out of it, and he didn’t feel like going back home where he’d probably just end up moping about. It was too early to meet Dede at the bar, and he knew that Missouri would tear him a new one for abandoning Dean, and then also maybe hop in the car and drive off to shoot John herself. That ruled her place out. 

Rather than head anywhere specific, he drove aimlessly, just following whatever whim grabbed him. Maybe he shouldn’t have been surprised when that whim, without his conscious permission, took him to the high school.

It was afternoon on a Saturday, but there were still students milling around in the parking lot as he pulled up, some of them there for extracurriculars and some just for want of anything better to do. The sharp pierce of a whistle followed by shouting told Sam that the football team would be out on the field, running drills. There had always been plenty of people hanging around during practices when he was a student, so he didn’t let that stop him from entering the stadium and climbing the bleachers up to the back.

As always whenever he came back here, his eyes were drawn to the brown spot of grass out in the middle of the field. It was hardly visible to anyone who didn’t know it was there, but it had driven the grounds crew nearly around the bend in Sam’s time. No one could figure out what had caused it or how to make it go away. They’d replaced that patch of astroturf three times, and each time, the spot came back. Eventually they’d decided there was just something wrong with the drainage or the dirt or the air or something else expensive sounding - chemical imbalances, ph levels, please keep your dogs off the grass - and it just wasn’t worth paying to fix.

Only Sam and Dean knew the full truth - that Sam had left a mark on the world there, a blemish that went deeper than what was visible. It was a permanent stain on reality itself.

Only Sam knew - sometimes he was afraid that he had left a permanent stain on himself.

That was always the worst part of seeing his dad again, if he was being honest. It was the fear that maybe everything John said was right. Missouri had said it herself: There was a darkness in Sam. There always had been.

Out on the field, the football players gathered together into a huddle, arms locked over each other’s shoulders. Their heads bobbed intermittently as they listened to whatever the coach was saying. The motion reminded Sam suddenly of the scrying dish containing his dad’s pulse.

It had been so strong. He’d more than seen it happening before his eyes, he’d felt the beating under his skin. He’d heard it in his ears. All of Sam’s body had become a conduit for the proof of his dad’s life. It had been a little heady, all that power. He’d never felt anything like it before. Where had it come from all of a sudden?

A part of him was afraid of it. A larger part of him desperately wanted it back.

Sam swiped a palm over his mouth. His eyes fell to that stain in the field, and his own heartbeat shot up in speed.

It had never really been forgotten. Not by anyone, least of all him.

Here was another secret about that night: Dean had always assumed that Sam had offered up his soul, and because Sam had never wanted to talk about it, he’d let him believe it. That wasn’t true, strictly speaking. Not entirely. What he had offered was...anything. Everything. Whatever it took.

Not Sam’s brightest choice as either a witch or a savvy shopper. He knew better now, anyway. Never play with powers you don’t understand and never hand a blank check to a stranger. At least try haggling a little. Work it down to an arm or a leg.

Sam groaned loudly and dropped his face into his hands, hating the part of himself that wondered just how much he could get for a limb. A leg, maybe. He wasn’t ready to give up the tattoos, not after all the work he’d put into them.

“There has always been a darkness in you, Sam.”

That echo again.

Had it been born that night, eight years ago? Or had it been born long ago? Was it something that had been done to him, lying in his crib as his mother burned? Was it something that he had done to himself? Or was it just...him?

And which of those things was worse?

Sam wanted more power. Sam was afraid of having more power. He was afraid of the cost, both of what he would lose and what he would willingly sacrifice. He was afraid of what he would do with power once he had gotten it. He was afraid - and some gnawing hunger had reared its head over the last few months and begun to salivate.

Footsteps on the bleachers suddenly interrupted these maudlin thoughts. They shook the metal seats and echoed loudly as their owner approached. Sam looked up to see a young woman with short blonde hair wearing running shorts and tennis shoes. She had an amused smile on her face.

“That’s an intense expression for high school sports, isn’t it?” she asked, taking an earbud out of her ear. “One of those neanderthals your little brother or something?”

“What?” Sam asked. He glanced down at the field, then back at her as his brain caught back up with reality. “No, sorry. I was just...lost in thought.”

“I could see that,” she said. “It can be dangerous, getting lost in your own head. You never know what you might find.”

Sam’s lips quirked.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “That’s definitely true.”

The girl studied him for a moment, then held out her hand.

“Meg,” she introduced.

“Sam,” he said, taking it.

“You look like you could use some company, Sam,” Meg said. “Want to talk about it?”

Sam looked toward the patch.

“Not really,” he said. Then he smiled back up at her again. “But you’re right. I could use the company.”

Meg sank down onto the bleachers beside him.

“The inside of your head is that dangerous, huh?” she asked.

Sam shook his head ruefully.

“You have no idea.”

“Hm,” Meg said. “I guess it’s a good thing that I’ve always been a bit of a thrill seeker, then.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Meg said. “It runs in the family.”

“We have that in common,” Sam said with a huff. “My dad and older brother -” He stopped and frowned.

“What, you fighting with the old man?” Meg asked. “I can relate to that. Mine can be a bit of hard ass at times.” 

She stretched her legs out on the bleachers below them, looking up at the bright blue sky. They were nice legs, Sam couldn’t help but notice.

“No,” he said. “Well, yeah, always, but that’s not really why - I was kind of a jerk to my brother a little bit ago. I feel bad about it now. That’s all.”

“That’s kind of what brothers do, though, isn’t it?” Meg asked. “Give each other a hard time? I mean, I’ve got a couple of my own, and they can be real tools. But at the end of the day, they’re still family, right?”

“Right,” Sam agreed softly.

“There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for my family,” Meg said. “What about you?”

The side of Sam’s face itched. He suppressed the sudden impulse to turn and stare at the field once more, as if the meaning would give itself away. He forced himself to maintain eye contact Meg instead.

“I agree,” he said with a smile. “One hundred percent.”

Meg smiled back.

][

Sam’s nursery had been converted into Sari’s bedroom. It was where she’d seen the ghost, wreathed in flames, appearing out of her closet in the middle of the night.

“So Mom’s a ghost,” Dean said. 

“Maybe,” John said. 

He stopped in front of the closet. The needle on the EMF detector was shaking as it made a high-pitched noise Dean could only interpret as ghost positive.

“And now she’s...haunting these people,” Dean went on. “Hurting them.”

“It’s possible,” John said.

“Mom,” Dean felt the need to repeat. “Scaring kids.”

John sighed and snapped the antenna of the EMF detector back into itself with the palm of his hand.

“If she’s a ghost, she’s been here for over twenty years,” he said. “Sticking around that long can corrupt a spirit until they no longer remember who they were. They’re reduced to nothing more than pure energy and malice. It’s where poltergeists come from - a ghost so degraded it’s barely more than a vicious animal - and what this woman and her kids are experiencing sounds a lot like poltergeist activity to me.”

For a moment, he stood gazing around the empty room. Then he looked at Dean.

“Whatever’s here,” he said, “it’s no longer your mother.”

Dean shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot.

“So what do we do?” he asked.

“Well, normally I’d say salt and burn the remains,” John began.

Dean made a sound half way between a gasp and a curse.

“You can’t be serious, Dad,” he said.

“But,” John went on, “obviously that’s not an option, given how Mary died. There are no remains left.”

“Given how - it’s  _ Mom _ ,” Dean said. “You’d really dig her up and do that to her?”

“Do you think I don’t know that?” John snapped. “Do you think this is easy for me, Dean?”

Dean looked away, abashed.

“Sorry,” he said. Then he asked again, more meekly this time, “So what do we do?”

John scratched at his jaw.

“Most decent psychics can purify low level hauntings,” he said, “but given that Missouri is likely to purify me with it, I think we’ll have to go with plan B.” 

He did not look like he was looking forward to plan B. Dean found, without even knowing what plan B was, that he felt similarly.

“...What’s plan B?” he asked anyway.

John reached for the tool bag, which Dean had carried up the stairs with them. Dean handed it over and watched with curiosity as John extracted a large shaker of salt.

“Sometimes what keeps a spirit tied to this world isn’t physical remains but a strong emotional attachment or belief in some kind of unfinished business,” John said. “We’re going to have to draw it out, then try to convince it to move on of its own accord.”

“Why does that not sound like a good idea?”

“Because it’s going to involve forcing it to manifest,” John said. “And then trying to talk reason to a being that no longer comprehends most human concepts and which can throw furniture across the room with a thought. And which looks like your dead mother.”

He popped the cap on the salt and began pouring a large circle on the floor around them.

“Oh, well, that’s just great,” Dean said. “We can have the world’s worst family reunion. Too bad Sam didn’t stick around for this. Are you sure we can’t call Missouri?”

“I really would prefer not to get shot,” John said.

“You’d pick a homicidal ghost over Missouri? It’s Missouri. She doesn’t even own a gun.”

“That you know about,” John said.

Dean turned that one over in his head. He decided that it was entirely possible Missouri Moseley owned a secret gun that she kept for the specific purpose of shooting his dad.

“You know, she wouldn’t be so mad at you all the time if you laid off Sam,” Dean said instead. “What’s with that, anyway? Nothing he does is worse than a purification ritual. He’s not stupid, and he’s not going to suddenly go on a power trip and turn dark side after all these years.”

They’d already dodged that bullet. But that was a secret that they had successfully kept from John, and Dean wasn’t going to be the one who spilled the beans. Not now. They already had plenty of problems without John going on a crusade over something that almost happened eight years ago.

“I don’t doubt Sam’s intentions,” John said. “But you know what they say about the road to hell.” His lips twisted, then fell again. “All I want is to keep him safe, Dean. You should want that, too.”

Dean’s fists clenched in his pockets. He forced them to ease up.

“I trust Sam,” he said.

John stood in the middle of the finished salt circle and stared back at him for a moment.

“You should go ask Jenny to take the kids out for a while,” he said. “This could get a bit messy.”

Dean waited a beat longer - for what, he wasn’t sure - then gave up and went to tell Jenny to clear out.

She was hesitant to leave a pair of strange men alone in her home on an apparent ghost hunt, so Dean resorted to the method of persuasion he had learned without his dad’s input - a charming smile and a wad of cash. She still had some reservations.

“Just to be clear,” she said, putting a jacket on the toddler, “I’m not liable for anything that’s about to happen, am I?”

“Not in the least,” Dean promised. “We’ll even fix whatever we break.”

“Whatever you - don’t break anything at all!”

Dean swore to do his very best not to and hustled her out the door.

When he went back upstairs, John immediately handed him a wrench.

“What’s this for?” Dean asked, weighing it in his hand.

“Iron,” was all John said.

“Oh, right,” Dean said. He did know that one. “Iron repels spirits. Actually, Sam’s - uhhhhh, nevermind. That’s not important.” It was probably better not to mention Sam’s athame. “What now?”

“Now,” John said, “we make it show its face.”

][

It was late. The sun had set. Hours had passed that felt like months.

Dean leaned against the side of the Impala, feeling the cold metal dig into his spine, and stared up at the now darkened house. It looked hollow, now, and Dean felt somewhat hollow, too.

His dad was standing in the doorway, conversing in low tones with Jenny, who was still clutching that toddler close. Never letting him out of her sight. Dean didn’t blame her.

From here, it was impossible to see John’s face, too far off and obscured by the low light, but the memory of it had already etched itself into Dean’s mind. Covered in soot and ash. Tear marks carving their way through the dirt, down his cheeks.

Dean had never seen his dad cry before. Not ever. Not that John had let him.

He hoped that he and Sam were still on for drinks with Dede. He could really use one right about now.

The rumble of a familiar engine had him looking up to see Sam’s truck was headed down the street toward them, as if summoned on cue. Speak of the devil. Relief flooded through Dean. Grief followed swiftly on its heels.

He turned back toward the house. Jenny had gone inside, but John was still standing on the front lawn, staring up at the nursery where Mary had died, and where her ghost had lingered for twenty years. Dean watched him.

“Dean?” 

Dean glanced up. Sam was at his side all of a sudden, concern written plain on his face.

“You came back,” Dean observed.

“I was worried when I didn’t hear anything from you,” Sam said. “I tried to call, but it went straight to voicemail.”

“I was on the phone with Missouri for a while,” Dean said. “Filling her in.”

“So...it’s taken care of?” Sam asked.

Dean nodded.

“Are you...I’m not gonna lie, you don’t look great, man.”

Dean straightened up off the Impala and walked a few paces down the sidewalk, away from John. 

“It was Mom, Sam,” Dean said quietly as they left hearing range. “The ghost here. It was Mom.”

Sam stared at him.

“What?”

“Yeah, it was -” Dean wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. They still stung. From the smoke, he told himself. All that smoke. “It was messed up. Dad drew her out by saying all kinds of crap. Making her mad. Then she appeared in this blaze of fire and…” He shook his head. “You should’ve seen her.”

Sam swallowed.

“What happened?” he asked. “Is she gone?”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “Yeah, she’s gone. Dad convinced her to go. She kept talking about having unfinished business, about work that still needed to be done, but he just told her to rest. That he’d take care of everything. And that he was sorry for leaving her here. Like this. Abandoning her.”

He didn’t know how to feel about that. Neither did Sam, apparently.

“Jesus,” he said.

“Yeah,” Dean agreed. He nodded slowly. “I’m sorry, Sammy.”

“What?” Sam asked. “What do you have to be sorry for? It’s me who should apologize. I just up and left you here. I shouldn’t have done that, Dean. Even with Dad. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s okay, I get it,” Dean said. “I really do. I just wish you could have seen her. Mom. She was beautiful.”

Sam looked past him toward the house.

“It’s alright, Dean,” he said. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

“No, really,” Dean said. “I’m not mad that you left, not with Dad being the way he is, but I wish you could’ve met her. You never got the chance while she was alive. I should have called when we realized what was going on.”

“It’s fine,” Sam said again. “It’s…” He looked at his feet. “It wasn’t really Mom, right? Just her ghost. And…” He bit his lip. “If I say something, will you promise you won’t be angry?”

“Hell of a way to start off.”

“I know,” Sam said with a huff.

“Sure,” Dean said. “Whatever it is. I won’t be mad.” He could never stay mad at Sam.

“It’s like you said,” Sam said. “I don’t remember her. To me, she’s just a story.” He ducked his face. “To be honest, I think of Missouri as my mom more than her.”

Dean thought of the scent of lavender. Lavender and smoke.

“Don’t be angry,” Sam said quickly. “I know how much you and Dad love her. I don’t want to replace her. I just -”

“I’m not mad, Sammy,” Dean said. “I get it. I understand perfectly.” He more than understood.

They shared a tentative smile.

“Just don’t let Dad hear you say it,” Dean added.

Sam scoffed.

“Speaking of,” he said. “Is he okay?”

“Who the hell knows with Dad?” Dean said. “He’s alive.”

They both turned to look back at John, bent over the open trunk of the Impala.

“I guess you’re right.”

John closed the trunk with a snap and turned to join them. As he came closer, Dean saw that his face was now clean. There was almost no sign of the emotional state that he’d been just an hour earlier, standing before the vision of Mary. They had almost only had eyes for each other. Dean had almost felt like he was intruding.

“I think it’s about time I headed out,” John said.

“Come on, you’re not even gonna stay the night?” Dean asked. “We have a perfectly good couch back at our place. I can feed you a home cooked meal.”

John smiled.

“It’s better if I don’t,” he said.

Dean swallowed the bitter response that stuck in his throat.

“It was real good to see you boys,” John said. “Dean -”

“Hold on,” Sam interrupted. He pushed past John, toward the house. “Look.”

John and Dean both turned to look. At first, Dean didn’t see what had drawn Sam’s attention, then a motion caught his eye. In the top middle window of the house was Jenny, banging against the glass and yelling silently for help.

John moved first. He was halfway back up the walk before either Sam or Dean could follow, and then he was shouldering his way through the door with a bang. Sam and Dean raced after him, and then were buffeted back by a wooden dining chair slamming into the wall next to Dean’s head.

“Holy shit,” Dean said, taking in the scene before them.

Everything in the house that wasn’t nailed down was floating.

“I thought you took care of the ghost!” Sam yelled as a heavy photo frame whipped past his face and crashed against the wall in a shower of glass.

“We did!” Dean said.

Upstairs, there were screams.

“The kids!” Dean shouted.

They took the stairs two at a time and found John on the top landing with Jenny, the little boy in her arms again. The door to Sari’s room had slammed shut and she was pounding on the other side.

“Come on!” Dean said, grabbing Jenny by the elbow and hurrying her down the stairs. 

He threw his arm over the back of her neck as she hunched over the little boy, protecting them both from the books and knick-knacks that were being pelted at them from all sides.

“Sari!” Jenny yelled back toward the house as they tumbled out onto the lawn.

“Stay here,” Dean instructed her. “We’ll get her out. I promise.”

Then he turned and raced back into the house and up the stairs again.

John was slamming his shoulder against the door, Sari screaming and crying on the other side. The door wouldn’t budge, only rattled in the frame with each strike.

“It’s no use,” John cursed. “Something’s keeping it shut. I don’t understand, Mary -”

“Dad, look out!” 

Sam’s cry came just in time. A bouquet of kitchen knives had floated up the stairs and flung themselves at John. He dodged out of the way and they embedded themselves in the wall where they hung quivering from the force.

“Let me,” Sam said, pushing past John.

He took out his athame and cut something in the air in front of Sari’s door, chanting in Latin as he did so. There was a creaking, sagging sound, like a great deal of weight being lifted, and then the door slipped open. Sam shoved his way between it and the frame, only for it to slam immediately back shut against his chest. He let out a choking grunt as the air was forced out of his lungs. The athame fell from his hand and clattered to the ground.

“Sam!”

“I’m fine!” Sam yelled. To Sari, he said, “Hold on. Just stay calm. We’re gonna get you out, okay?”

Dean rushed forward to try to force the door off of his brother, but a small nightstand smashed into his legs, sending him stumbling to the ground. A stereo followed, bouncing off his rib cage hard enough to bruise.

Sam’s right hand flicked in the air. The athame came flying back into it, and he began cutting sigils again with hardly a second thought. The door eased open once more, this time long enough for Sari to slip through.

John scooped her into his arms and carried her down the stairs. Climbing to his feet, Dean grabbed Sam by the elbow and yanked him after. Sari’s door slammed shut so hard behind them that the whole house shook.

Downstairs, John was struggling with the front door. The couch in the nearby living room shuddered violently, then came sliding across the floor, attempting to sweep Sam and Dean off their feet. Dean hopped back a step, and Sam leapt forward, already motioning with his athame again.

When the sigil was finished, the front door flew open. Dean jumped the sofa and stumbled after Sam and their dad, who was greeted by a sobbing Jenny, arms open to accept Sari. The front door slammed shut almost the moment Dean made it outside, nearly nipping him in the heels.

“What the hell was that?” he asked, whirling back to look. 

Through the window, he could see the furniture still shaking, although much of it had settled back down. He had no doubt that it would start again the instant they reentered the home.

“That’s what I’d like to know,” John said.

But he had turned on Sam.

“Dad -” Sam started.

“A knife?” John asked, starting toward him. “That’s not an ordinary knife, Sam. And what you did back there -”

“He saved a little girl’s life!” Dean said, stepping between him. “He saved her, and us, too. From the poltergeist we were supposed to take care of. I thought this was over, Dad.”

John glared, but turned to regard the house.

“So did I,” he said. “There must have been another spirit. Mary...she was talking about unfinished business. I thought she meant the yellow-eyed demon.”

“She meant the poltergeist,” Dean realized. “It wasn’t her. She was keeping it in check.”

“I can get rid of it,” Sam said out of the blue.

Dean whipped his head around to stare at him. So did John. But Sam wasn’t looking at either of them. His expression was set - he was looking at the house.

“No,” John said firmly.

“I don’t need your permission,” Sam said, stepping forward. “I know what I’m doing. I could feel that thing, its energy. I can drive it out.”

“How?” Dean asked, baffled.

“The wards in my tattoos,” Sam said. “They’re strong enough to keep it out of me, and I can replicate them for the house.”

Dean nodded slowly. He’d always vaguely known about those, and Bobby had said something about them, too, recently, hadn’t he? They kept out evil spirits. If Sam was saying he could do it, then Dean believed him.

“Okay,” he agreed.

“No,” John said again. “I’m not letting you do this, Sam.”

“Then stop me,” Sam said, and started jogging back toward the house.

Dean jogged after him, ignoring their dad’s shouts.

“What’s the plan?” Dean asked as they neared the front door.

Sam glanced back at him.

“You should stay out here,” he said. “It could attack you. You could get hurt.”

“We’re not having this argument again,” Dean said. “I go where you go. Period. Forever. What’s the plan?”

Sam scowled, but relented.

“I’ll have to do it at the house’s foundations,” he said. “In the basement. It’ll take a lot of concentration. If you could keep it from flinging too much crap at me, that would be great.”

“Got it,” Dean said.

“You’re not going in there by yourselves,” John said.

He had joined them on the steps, two shotguns in his hands. He tossed one to Dean, who caught it out of reflex.

“Rock salt shells,” John said.

“I’m doing this, Dad,” Sam said.

“Clearly I can’t talk you out of it,” John said. “That doesn’t mean I’m going to stand by and watch my sons get themselves killed.”

Sam eyed him for a second, then nodded.

“Okay,” he said. “Then follow my lead.”

He opened the door. A television flew over their heads and crashed on the lawn.

“My TV!” Jenny yelled.

Sam, Dean, and John all exchanged glances.

“Sorry!” Sam shouted. In a lower voice, he asked, “We’re not gonna be responsible for that, are we?”

“Just get moving already,” Dean said.

They rushed into the house, dodging projectiles from all sides. Jenny wasn’t going to have a chair left to sit on by the time the poltergeist was through. Dean was seriously beginning to regret promising to fix everything.

They hurried to the basement, which Sam had to spell the door open for. Sweat was beading on his forehead as he worked. This kind of magic took a lot out of him, Dean knew. It wasn’t just channeling energy. It was forcing a change in material reality. That took more than a bit of will power and some magic words. (He  _ had _ paid attention to some of Madam’s lectures, even though he’d dozed though most of them.)

The basement was filled with boxes that shook and spilled at their feet. In the corner, the boiler was shaking like a drum full of rocks as the pipes whistled and banged overhead. A set of skis whacked John over the head. Dean narrowly avoided being skewered by the poles that went with them. 

“Any time you want to start, Sam!” Dean called, using the butt of the shotgun to bat away a bicycle helmet aimed at his skull.

Sam found a spot in the center of the basement, raised the athame, and drew it quickly across his palm. Blood splattered onto the concrete at his feet. A sharp smell of ozone filled the air and every small hair on Dean’s body stood on end. He could feel the uptick in power as Sam began to chant. And it was coming from him. It was coming from Sam.

It was like nothing Dean had ever felt before in his life.

Eyes wide with shock, Dean could only stare dumbly for a second, before there was suddenly a roar in his ears, and he was being thrown bodily across the room.

“Dean!” he heard their dad shout.

Something had its hands around Dean’s throat, constricting his airways. No, not hands. Claws. He could feel the tips of long, jagged nails digging into his skin. Spots danced in front of his eyes.

From somewhere beyond it, he heard the cocking of a shotgun, then a blast. Dean sucked in air as the poltergeist released him, letting out an animalistic howl that shook his ear drums. He blinked, ears ringing, and looked up to see his dad standing across from him, shotgun pointed in Dean’s direction.

“What if that had gone through it?” Dean snapped, reaching up to rub at his raw neck.

John shrugged.

“Rock salt rounds hurt like a bitch, but they’re not fatal,” he said.

“You’re a real bastard, Dad, you know that?”

Whatever John might have said to that was interrupted by a growl, and then another attack. An invisible force swiped at John’s shoulder, sending him crashing backward. Blood seeped from a tear in his jacket.

Dean cried out to him, but then John was yelling, “Watch Sam!”

Dean whirled around just in time to see a huge wardrobe go scraping across the concrete toward Sam, who stood with his eyes closed, hair buffeted about in an invisible wind. The athame moved precisely through the air before him. His lips were moving, but he wasn’t making a sound. The wardrobe careening toward him was taller than Sam was, and at least twice as wide.

“This is going to hurt,” Dean muttered to himself, and then threw himself against the side of the wardrobe, sending it crashing over onto its side on the ground.

“How much crap does this lady own?” Dean asked, climbing back onto his feet.

There was another shotgun blast, followed by a wounded snarl of pain.

The wind picked up around Sam. Dean could feel it now, teasing at his jacket and hair. The smell of ozone was so strong, it was like lightning had struck down in the basement. The temperature had dropped from lukewarm to freezing.

Dean heard a growl at the back of his neck and hot breath on his skin. He rounded with his shotgun and fired it blindly. The rock salt definitely hit something - the shards of it burned through the air into ash, and the poltergeist whined. Those were the only signs that Dean had just stopped something that was trying to maul him to death.

This was, without a doubt, the weirdest fight Dean had ever been in in his life.

“Next year, let’s just do laser tag!” Dean shouted at Sam, but Sam was too busy to respond.

His casting had reached a fever pitch. The athame was raised high above his head, sparks dancing along the blood-wet edge, like it was calling power out of the very atoms around it. The air was thick with static electricity. Everything, from Dean’s skin to his toenails, buzzed with the feeling.

He had a fleeting moment during which he wondered what their dad’s EMF detector would have to say about that.

Dean was just bracing himself for something earth-shattering and cataclysmic to take place - a tear opening up in the universe, maybe, or the literal end of the world - when suddenly, everything just stopped.

Sam’s arms dropped to his sides and he opened his eyes. The wind fell off, and the smell of ozone slowly began to fade. All around them, the room went still. Objects dropped out of the air and bounced lifelessly to rest. Nothing else so much as twitched.

The house had gone silent.

Hesitantly, Dean lowered the shotgun and stepped forward.

“Is it...gone?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Sam said breathlessly. He looked worn, like he’d just run a marathon. He licked wetness back into his lips and then repeated a little more steadily, “Yeah, it’s gone.”

He was looking down at the concrete beneath his feet. Dean followed his gaze.

Seared into the ground was a long series of black burn marks, identical to the seals on Sam’s shoulders.

Dean whistled.

“That’s going to be a hard one to explain to any future potential buyers,” he said.

“A big rug will probably cover it,” Sam said, more reasonably than the situation warranted.

“What happened to the poltergeist do you think?” Dean asked.

“I don’t know,” Sam said. “But it’s not here anymore, and it won’t ever be able to come back.”

John staggered toward them, clutching his still sluggishly bleeding shoulder.

“That took a lot of power, Sam,” he said. There was a challenge in his voice and eyes. “What you just did went far beyond regular magic.”

“Yeah, well,” Sam said, raising his chin. “Maybe I’m just that good.”

John’s jaw tightened.

“Maybe,” he said.

He didn’t sound like he believed it.

“Can you two stow this argument for later?” Dean asked quickly. “Like, after we’re out of this basement, for example? I have just about had it with this house.”

“I’m with you there,” Sam said.

Before John could say anything more, they headed for the stairs. Out on the lawn, Jenny was waiting with her two kids.

“Is it safe?” she asked as they emerged, stepping carefully over the shattered remains of her television.

“Yeah,” Dean said. “For real this time. We’re sure.”

Jenny’s shoulders slumped in relief.

“Thank god.”

“Sorry about all your stuff,” Sam said.

“That’s alright,” she said. “Everyone’s alive. That’s all I can really ask for.”

Her kids looked like they were probably going to have nightmares for the rest of their lives. Even juice boy had gone silent.

“Still,” Dean said. “We’ll come back and help you clean up. It’s the least we can do.”

“Thank you,” she said. “All three of you.”

Dean looked over his shoulder at their dad. He was standing a short distance back from them, face stiff with a look of cold concentration. He was staring at Sam.

Dean slapped a hand on Sam’s back.

“Wait for me in the truck, Sammy,” he instructed, and walked toward John without waiting for a response.

John watched him approach, then shouldered his shotgun and headed for the Impala. Either the wound he’d received wasn’t as bad as it had first looked, or he was doing a real good job of handling the pain.

“Are we going to have a problem about Sam?” Dean asked, handing back his own borrowed gun.

“That’s up to him at this point,” John said, taking it.

“No,” Dean said. “It’s up to you.”

John didn’t reply. He put the shotguns away in the trunk, closed the hidden compartment, then straightened and looked up at the moon. He checked his watch.

“It’s still the 24th for another thirty minutes,” he said.

Dean swallowed, taken off guard.

“Yeah,” he said roughly. “It is.”

“Happy birthday, Dean,” John said.

Dean glanced back at the house where he’d spent his first four years, now empty of even his mother’s ghost. Then he looked further, toward Sam, climbing in the cab of his truck, watching them with wary eyes.

“Thanks,” Dean said, without much feeling.

“I think you should hang on to these.”

Dean turned back to face him just in time to accept the box John pushed into his arms. It took him a moment to realize what it was - the photos from the house.

“Are you sure?” he asked, momentarily floored. “I can really have these? You don’t want them?”

“I already snagged a couple,” John said with a small smile. “But I don’t really have a good place to keep them when I’m on the road. They’ll be better off with you. Maybe you can put them in an album or something. Mary would have liked that.”

Dean nodded.

“Thanks,” he said again, and meant it more this time.

John closed the Impala’s trunk and walked around to the driver’s side.

“Dean,” John said. “I can’t make you any promises about the future. There’s too much at stake, too many variables that are out of my control. I just don’t know how it’s all going to turn out. But if you call, I’ll do everything in my power to come. I can promise you that.” He opened the door of the Impala. “So call me. For anything. For you or for Sam.”

The offer should have been comforting, but there was something hard in John’s gaze that made Dean nervous. He nodded dutifully, anyway.

“Sure,” he said.

He didn’t know if he would.

][

Sam was waiting for him in the truck.

“What’s that?” he asked, eyeing the box in Dean’s arms curiously as he climbed inside.

“Photos,” Dean said. “Of our parents, and of us from when we were little. Jenny found them at the house.”

“Oh,” Sam said. “Can I see?”

Dean opened the lid. With hesitant fingers, Sam reached out and picked up one of their mom. He examined it with an odd look on his face - curiosity mingled with grief and something else, a little distant and sad.

“Guess we’re probably too late for drinks with Dede,” Dean said, looking away.

“Yeah,” Sam said. He cleared his throat and dropped the photo back into the box. “I texted her to apologize for skipping, but she said she understood. She wanted me to tell you happy birthday, by the way.”

“Sweet of her.”

“Happy birthday,” Sam said again.

A motion caught Dean’s eye. Sam had pulled a package out of his pocket. It was small and lumpy and wrapped in little more than brown paper and tape. Sam watched closely as Dean took the present and began pulling it open.

“It’s not much,” Sam said. “Just something I found at Bobby’s. He said it was a protective charm of some kind, but couldn’t say what for. Figured a guy like you could use a wild card.”

The package fell open. Inside was a small brass amulet on a black leather thong. It had an ugly little face, with horns and bug eyes. Dean ran his thumb over the ridges, feeling the tiny bumps and grooves, the metal under his skin. It was faintly warm, probably from being in Sam’s pocket.

“Thanks for everything, Dean,” Sam said. “I don’t know what I would do without you watching my back.”

Dean’s lips twitched up into a smile.

“Something stupid, probably,” he said. He reached up and put the amulet on, letting it fall with a thump against his chest and dangle there as a small, almost imperceptible weight. “Thanks, Sammy. Looks pretty cool on me, right?”

“Cooler than you were before, anyway,” Sam said.

“Shaddup.”

They drove home in exhausted silence. Sam parked in front of the store and clicked off his seat belt. He had one hand on the door to open it when Dean stopped him.

“Sam,” he said. “What you did back there. I hate to say it, but Dad was right. That took a lot of power.”

“It did,” Sam agreed.

“How long have you been able to do something like that?”

Sam met his eyes.

“I have no idea,” he said.

Dean nodded. Then he clicked off his own buckle and got out of the car.

“I hope you don’t mind if I ignore that little mystery for the moment,” he said. “I can only take so many crises at a time, and I’ve already reached my quota for the day.” He suddenly groaned.

“What is it?” Sam asked.

“Something Dad said to Mom,” Dean said. “He was talking about the yellow-eyed demon. He said he was planning to kill it.”

“That’s possible?”

“Dad seemed to think so,” Dean said. “He said he had a lead.”

“That would take some serious mojo,” Sam said. “Way beyond what I did tonight. Killing a demon - that’s obliterating a soul, Dean. It’s not just an exorcism.”

“I know,” Dean said. “But Dad seemed sure. So add that to the list of things we have to worry about. Dad doing magic.”

Sam shook his head in wonder as he unlocked the shop’s back door.

“What the hell is he up to?” he asked.

“I have no idea," Dean said. He mounted the stairs up to the apartment. “I’ll tell you what though, Sam. This has been just about the worst birthday I've ever had, and I'm counting the year I had chicken pox.”

Sam snorted.

Then he suddenly asked, “Hey, why do you think I never got chicken pox?”

“What do you mean?” Dean asked. “It's because I made you lots of chicken noodle soup growing up. Don't ask dumb questions.”

“That's not how - okay, sure,” Sam said. “Anyway, there's still a few minutes left until midnight. You never know. It's not too late for the day to turn around.”

“Right,” Dean scoffed. “The next five minutes would have to be pretty spectacular to do that.”

He threw his jacket over the back of the couch, set the box of photos on the coffee table, and stepped into the kitchen. He turned on the light, intending to grab a beer, only to jump about a foot in the air in surprise.

There was a strange man standing by the kitchen table, wearing a trench coat and a blue tie.

“Dean Winchester,” he said.

“Yeah, and who the hell are you?” Dean asked.

A look of profound relief crossed the man's face.

“My name is Castiel,” he said. “I’ve come from the future in order to save your soul.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >Castiel has entered the chat.
> 
> Yowza. I already knew how massive this fic was going to be when I started it and I’m still sitting here like golly this has gotten out of hand. I’ve literally written more than 50,000 words in under a month and broken my keyboard doing it. Oh well. In for a penny, in for a pound. If you’re still with me you’re a champ. A true MVP. Your prize is...Castiel. You made it!!!! :D Now the slow burn can start. LMFAO!
> 
> To be honest I probably should have split this chapter in two because it's literally 11k but I didn’t want to wait for Castiel anymore. Also, at some point I might go back and revise the last couple of chapters, but it won't affect anything outside of general quality so don't worry about it if you already made it this far.
> 
> Chapter title is from ‘Fortunate Son’ by CCR. :)


	8. Hallowed Be Thy Name

Dean reached for his hip flask, uncapped it with a flick of his thumb, and splashed the man in the trench coat with a healthy dose of holy water.

Nothing happened.

The man did not flinch. His skin did not burn. He did not scream in unholy agony. He merely closed his eyes and then slowly opened them again, a look of such supreme exhaustion on his face that Dean couldn’t help feeling a momentary pang of guilt. He squashed it like a bug under his heel. Maybe Bobby’s online priesthood didn’t work quite as well as he thought.

“Uh...Christo?” Dean tried.

“I am not a demon,” the man called Castiel said flatly as a fat droplet rolled down the bridge of his nose. “I’m an angel of the Lord.”

“Can’t be too careful these days,” Dean said with a shrug. “If you’re not a demon, then what are you and how did you get in our kitchen?”

“I just told you,” Castiel said. “I’m an -”

“- angel of the Lord,” Dean finished. “Yeah, now pull the other one.”

“Pull the other what?” Castiel asked, brows pinched.

“Leg,” Dean said. “You’re pulling my leg.” At Castiel’s continued puzzlement, he explained, “It means you’re joking.”

“This is no joking matter,” Castiel said. He reached up and swiped the holy water from his face, shaking droplets away from his hand. “Your soul is in great peril, Dean, and so is the fate of the world.”

“Dean…” Sam ventured, lowering his athame, which he had raised defensively in front of himself. “I think he's serious.”

Dean’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline.

“Are you for real?” he asked. “You really think this guy is an angel? A real angel, here to save my soul. Via time travel.” To Castiel, he said, “Most missionaries knock first, pal.”

“I didn't say he was an angel,” Sam said. “Just that he thinks he is.”

“Okay, look,” Dean said to Castiel. “Whatever your deal is - and I really can’t emphasize enough how little I care - can it at least wait until morning? I’d like to go to bed.”

Castiel made a sound of frustration and took a step toward him. Dean’s hand twitched toward his gun holster.

“You need to listen,” Castiel said. “At some point in the next year, you’re going to sell your soul. The consequences of this action will be more catastrophic than you can possibly imagine.”

“You think  _ Dean _ ,” Sam said incredulously, “is going to sell his soul? To a demon? Dean of all people.”

“I don’t think; I know,” Castiel said. “Much has gone wrong, more evil still will yet come to pass, and all of it begins with the temptation of Dean Winchester. It must be stopped.”

“'The temptation of Dean Winchester?'” Sam repeated, wrinkling his nose.

“Sometime in the next year, though?” Dean clarified. “Not right this second?”

Castiel hesitated, and then glanced away. It was hard to tell, but he almost seemed embarrassed.

“The timeline in Lawrence, Kansas is...confused,” he said. He sounded annoyed. “Determining exactly how events unfold in this town and in which order is next to impossible. It took me considerable effort and many errors just to navigate to this point.” He shook his head. “The anomaly in the time stream appears to be centered on a man named Steven Fortinsky. I can tell no more than that.”

“So...Steven really is a time wizard?” Sam asked. “Huh. Mystery solved, I guess.”

“What I’m hearing you say,” Dean said to Castiel, “is that you don’t know when or how I’m supposedly going to sell my soul.”

“The exact circumstances of your deal elude me, that is correct,” Castiel said. “Even the records of heaven were vague.”

“But it’s unlikely to be anytime in the next eight to ten hours?”

“I...yes, it is unlikely,” Castiel admitted. “However -”

“Then it can wait,” Dean concluded, “until morning.”

The lights in the kitchen flickered, and the outlets in the walls all sparked. The gas stove tops roared suddenly to life, the flames shooting high up past the grills. The silverware rattled in their drawers and the dirty dishes in the sink started to shake. Across the cabinets on the wall directly behind Castiel, a great, dark shadow suddenly loomed, unfurling with a noise akin to rumbling thunder. It looked like a pair of wings.

“Whoa,” Dean said, taking an involuntary step back.

“Holy shit,” Sam said.

“You will listen to me, _ boy _ ,” Castiel spat, and seemed to tower above them both, impossibly large in the small confines of their kitchen. “I will not tolerate your cavalier attitude, not after all I’ve endured to reach you here. I have seen your soul on the rack, broken, bloodied, and deformed, and  _ I was not impressed _ .”

In the dumbstruck silence that followed this declaration, there was a rustling sound.  Then a new voice said, “Castiel.”

The lights flickered back on and the shaking stopped. Dean dropped his arm from where he’d thrown it up to shield his face. At his side, Sam was frozen in a defensive hunch.

The trembling wrath of God melted from Castiel as he turned to face the man who had just blinked into existence, right before their eyes. This one balding and wearing a suit. He was smiling slightly, but there was an edge to it.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked Castiel.

“Zachariah,” Castiel greeted him. “What do you mean? I’m fulfilling my mission.”

“No, no, no,” Zachariah said with a laugh. He took a step toward Castiel, glanced over at Sam and Dean, then leaned in and dropped his voice. “Castiel, your mission was to retrieve Dean Winchester’s soul from hell.”

“Before he broke the first seal,” Castiel said. “Yes, I understand. But we didn’t make it in time. We failed.  _ I _ failed. I determined that the only way to correct my failure was to -”

“Jump back in time and stop his soul from ever going to hell in the first place,” Zachariah finished quickly, nodding along as he caught up to Castiel’s train of thought. “Okay. Right. Well, points for creativity! Rest assured, upper management sees and appreciates both your enthusiasm and your outside the box problem solving skills. But, um -” He reached out and placed a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “Here’s the deal. It’s important to know when to move on from past mistakes and refocus our energies on strategizing for future success. Do you see what I’m saying?”

Castiel stared at Zachariah, then at Dean. Then he stared at Zachariah again.

“No,” he said. “I don’t.”

“This whole time travel thing,” Zachariah said. “It’s...it’s just too messy, Castiel.”

“As I understand it, the apocalypse would be a great deal messier,” Castiel said.

Dean turned to exchange glances with Sam, who looked just as baffled as Dean felt. Dean gestured toward the two maybe-angels standing in their kitchen discussing his soul and the apparent apocalypse as if to say, ‘Are you following any of this shit?’ Sam shrugged expressively, as if to say, ‘No. No, I am not.’

“Sure, and we have a plan to deal with that,” Zachariah was saying. “We do. But for now, it’s time to cut our losses and regroup.”

“Our losses,” Castiel said tightly, “include many of our brethren. Dozens of angels under my command died waging war against the legions of hell, all so that I could descend and free the righteous man from his bondage. If this mission was so critical that their lives were an acceptable price to pay for its completion, then I assumed -”

“And that’s where our problem lies, right there,” Zachariah said. He slung an arm around Castiel’s shoulders and jabbed him in the chest with one finger. Castiel looked uncomfortable with the contact, but made no move to end it. “You assumed. It’s not your job to assume! Your job is to do what I tell you to do!” He gave Castiel a friendly shake.

“I only thought -” said Castiel. 

“Stop thinking!” Zachariah said, shaking him a little harder.

“Excuse me,” Dean finally interrupted. “I know you two gal pals are having a moment, but can you do it somewhere else? As I just got done telling Cas here, I’d like to go to bed.”

“Stick a sock in it, mud monkey,” Zachariah said to him. “No one was talking to you.”

“Uh, wow,” Dean said. “Uncalled for.”

“Rude,” Sam agreed. “You guys are the ones who decided to have it out in our kitchen.”

“I don’t understand,” Castiel said. “Zachariah, we have a chance to stop the apocalypse before it can begin, just as you yourself told me God commanded. What you’re asking me to do now, to turn my back on our brothers and sisters, to allow the first seal on Lucifer’s cage to break...how can that be right? Doesn’t that contradict God’s will?”

“God’s will has changed,” Zachariah said.

Castiel’s eyes narrowed and his head tilted slightly as he studied Zachariah, like he was trying to see something beyond the smug, condescending smile.

Zachariah dropped his arm from around Castiel’s shoulders.

“Is that doubt I sense, Castiel?” he asked. He didn’t sound nearly as amused as he had a moment before.

Castiel’s expression fell and he looked away.

“I only want to understand,” he said. “If this is what God wanted, why was it necessary for my brothers and sisters to die trying to prevent it?”

“Everything will be explained,” Zachariah said. “There’s more at play here than you’re aware of. There are things you won’t need to know until the time is right.”

“When will the time be right?” Castiel asked.

“Soon,” Zachariah promised. “Have patience, Castiel. Now let me just erase these humans’ memories, and then we can hop back up to heaven and get things back on track.”

“Hold on a second,” Sam said.

“Nobody’s messing with our heads,” Dean added, moving in front of him.

“No,” Castiel said.

Zachariah stopped short.

“What did you just say?” he asked, turning to face Castiel.

Castiel hesitated. He looked faintly surprised, like he couldn’t believe he’d said it either. Then he steeled himself.

“I said, ‘No,’” he repeated. “We may never get this chance again. This could very well be the moment when all is either saved or lost. I cannot in good conscience abandon my duty without just cause. Explain it to me now, Zachariah, or I’m not going anywhere.”

Zachariah regarded him coolly.

“Stubborn thing, aren’t you?” he said. “I was warned about that. Alright. Well. It’s unfortunate, but I can see you won’t be swayed. In that case… Thank you for services rendered, Castiel. You’ve been a valuable asset.” There was a loud  _ shink!  _ and a gleaming silver blade appeared in his hand. “But I’m afraid we’re going to have to let you go.”

Almost faster than Dean’s eyes could follow, Zachariah raised the blade and stabbed it toward Castiel’s heart. Whatever Castiel’s confusion about the situation might have been, it clearly did not extend to attempts on his life, because he threw himself backward, out of the weapon’s path. There was a second  _ shink! _ and an identical blade appeared in his own hand.

“Zachariah,” he pleaded. “Brother.”

“It’s too late for that, Castiel,” Zachariah said. “This is bigger than both of us.”

He lunged toward Castiel, knocking the kitchen table over on its side as he swept past. Place mats went flying and the cow-shaped salt and pepper shakers shattered on the tile floor.

“Hey!” Dean shouted. “Watch it!”

The angels ignored him. Castiel caught the edge of Zachariah’s blade with his own just above his face. A spray of sparks the color of ice showered down on him.

“Don’t make me do this,” Castiel begged, even as his arm shook with the effort of holding off Zachariah’s attack. “I don’t want to kill you.”

“Please,” Zachariah said. “As if you could. I may have been out of the field for a while, but I’m still your superior, Castiel. You’re about two million years too early to go toe to toe with me.”

“Dean, I think we should get out of here,” Sam said, grabbing Dean by the elbow and dragging him back.

“But my kitchen!” Dean said.

Zachariah drew his blade back and then swung it toward Castiel once more. Castiel ducked as it whipped through the air where his head had just been. Behind him, the cabinets flung open in the wake of some immense invisible wind. Several plates and bowls fell from the shelves and crashed in a heap of broken porcelain.

“All of this could have been avoided if you had just done as you were told!” Zachariah said.

“I did do as I was told!” Castiel countered. “I was told to prevent the breaking of the first seal!”

“Stop it, you asshats!” Dean cried. To Sam, who was pulling him bodily out into the hall, he said, “Tell me you can do something to get rid of these clowns.”

“Get rid of angels?” Sam asked. “Yeah, not so much.”

Dean put his hands on his head and watched helplessly as Zachariah threw Castiel into the pantry, breaking the door off its hinges and sending Lucky Charms flying everywhere. The tiny, sugary projectiles pinged loudly as they hit the fridge and coffee maker and other hard surfaces in the kitchen. The tupperware bin full of flour also burst open, and a cloud of white filled the air, coating everything in a fine powder.

“Whoever wins is cleaning that up!” Dean snapped.

“I’m calling Bobby,” Sam said, already dialing.

Castiel coughed into his sleeve, dodged another blow, and struck at Zachariah’s exposed side. The other angel whirled away at the last moment, bringing his own blade down on Castiel’s extended arm. The trench coat’s sleeve tore and blood began spreading in a dark stain across the beige material. It dripped down Castiel’s hand as he retreated a few steps, dotting the floor and forming thick, pink clumps in the flour.

“Hey, Bobby, it’s Sam,” Dean heard from behind him. “Yes, I know what time it is. Do you know anything about angels? Angels. Like the ones from the Bible I think? No, I haven’t checked the Bible. It’s kind of urgent, so -”

Whatever else he was going to say was drowned out by the rushing sound in Dean’s ears as Zachariah lunged at Castiel, missed, and sent another invisible wind sweeping across the counter, shattering jars of honey and sugar and throwing the shiny red Kitchenaid mixer sitting innocently in one corner to the side. It hit the backsplash, bounced over the edge of the counter, and found the floor. As it collided with the hard tiles, there was an echoing _crack!_ and metal pieces scattered in all directions.

“ _ No! _ ” Dean screamed in horror.

“Oh god,” Sam gasped.

“That’s it!” Dean yelled, drawing his gun. “Both of you get the fuck out of my kitchen right now! I am not kidding!”

“Quiet down, worm,” Zachariah said without even bothering to look in his direction. “I’ll get to you in a second.”

Dean shot him.

Sam yelped and jumped about a foot in the air. Even Dean was a little startled at how loud the gun’s retort was in the small room - it had been a long time since he’d fired a gun, and never in such close quarters. Neither Castiel nor Zachariah seemed bothered by the sound. Zachariah was definitely bothered by being shot, but not at all in the way Dean had hoped.

He raised his arm to look at the weeping bullet hole in his side. Then he gaped, affronted, at Dean.

“You jumped-up parasitic infection!” he said. “I like this suit!”

Castiel took the opportunity of his distraction to dive toward Zachariah, blade raised with lethal intent. For a split second, it looked like the hit would land. Then Zachariah was suddenly catching his wrist and yanking his arm in the other direction. He twisted until Castiel’s grip loosened and his blade clattered to the floor.

“This has gone on for long enough,” Zachariah said, pressing Castiel back against the toppled kitchen table. “My patience just ran out. Goodbye, Castiel.”

“Wait, stop -” Castiel began.

But it was too late. Zachariah’s blade rammed home, straight between Castiel’s ribs.

Or at least it started to. There was a bright, blinding light in the kitchen, emanating from Castiel’s eyes and mouth, both thrown open in agony. Then, just as soon as it had started, it stopped. 

Zachariah had suddenly disappeared. His blade had gone with him, vanishing out of Castiel’s chest.

Castiel was left panting and alone in the ruined kitchen, hanging limply over the upturned table as he stared down at his torso. The gaping stab wound was bleeding profusely. Something blue and shimmering dripped from it as well.

There was a long beat during which there was nothing but stunned silence, except for Sam’s phone - Bobby was still on the other end, talking up a storm too indistinct for Dean to make out - and Castiel’s heavy breathing. Then Castiel groaned and dropped to his knees with a thud.

“Uh, Bobby, let me call you back, actually,” Sam said. He hung up and rushed toward Castiel. “Are you okay?”

“My baby,” Dean said mournfully, collapsing before the remains of his Kitchenaid. “You bastards broke my baby!”

“I should be dead,” Castiel said. “That was a killing blow.” He reached up to touch his wound, then winced and drew his hand away.

“How are you alive right now?” Sam asked.

“I don’t know,” Castiel said. He shook his head and climbed unsteadily to his feet. “Something is terribly wrong in heaven. Zachariah...the things he said...I don’t understand. ” His eyes darted about, as if the answers might be hidden in their small kitchen. Then they fell on Dean. “All I know is that your soul is now the point on which the fate of this world turns.”

“Forget about my soul!” Dean snapped, holding up the pieces of his Kitchenaid. “What about my three hundred dollar standing mixer?”

“Dean, priorities,” Sam said. “The guy just got stabbed.” He took Castiel by the elbow and gently guided him to one of the chairs that hadn’t been knocked over in the fight.

“Yeah, but he's an angel,” Dean said. “He can just miracle himself all better, right?”

Castiel leaned heavily on Sam’s arm as he sank down into the seat. He touched his wound again, then stared down at the blood on his hand - and at the shimmering blue liquid that was mixed in with it.

“You can fix yourself, can't you?” Dean asked.

A look of concentration crossed Castiel’s face. Then, slowly, the flesh on his torso and arm began to knit back together. Once they had finished, his clothes fixed themselves as well, until you wouldn’t have known by looking at him that he’d just been stabbed.

“See?” Dean said. He frowned. “Man, you still don’t look like you’re doing too hot.”

“Heat is not the issue,” Castiel said. “Zachariah’s attack damaged my grace. Healing myself took a great deal more power than it should have.” He closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair. Then he opened them again and forced himself to stand. “Even so, there’s no time to waste.”

“I really think you should sit back down,” Sam said.

Castiel ignored him and crossed unsteadily to Dean.

“I apologize for the damage done to your kitchen appliance,” he said. “It seems trivial to me in comparison with the truly unbearable torment I am attempting to spare your immortal soul from, but I understand that some humans place undue value on material objects.”

“Undue value -” Dean began.

Castiel waved his hand and the mixer’s pieces disappeared out Dean’s arms and reappeared on the kitchen counter, reassembled and in perfect condition.

“Oh,” Dean said. “Thanks.”

“Now if everything is to your satisfaction,” Castiel said, “I have a much more pressing matter to attend to. I’ll be back as soon as I am able.”

There was a rustling sound like the one that had announced Zachariah’s arrival - like the fluttering of wings, Dean realized - and then Castiel had vanished.

“No, I’m not satisfied!” Dean said at the empty spot where Castiel had been standing a moment before. “What about the rest of my kitchen?”

The pantry door still leaned brokenly against one wall. Shards of porcelain and glass were littered across the floor, along with dehydrated marshmallows and pieces of cereal. The table and a few of the chairs were lying on their sides and a fine dusting of flour covered absolutely everything. Honey was dripping over one side of the counter in thick, sticky globs. There was also a fair amount of blood.

“Dude, I think you just got told off by a guy who doesn’t understand sarcasm,” Sam said.

“Yuck it up,” Dean said, surveying the damage. “We’re going to be cleaning this up for a month.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got it,” Sam said.

He crouched down, dipped his finger in one of the pools of Castiel’s shimmering blood, and began drawing squiggling pink patterns in the flour. When he was finished, he laid his palm flat on the sigil and muttered a few quick words.

With a soft whooshing sound and a brief gust of wind, the flour, cereal, blood, and honey all vanished. So did all the other dirt and dust that had gathered in the room, in fact. The table, chairs, and door were still knocked over, and the shards of broken pottery and glass didn’t budge, but the rest of the room was spic and span. It was better than it ever looked after Dean had mopped.

Dean whistled appreciatively.

“Nice cleaning spell, Sammy,” he said. “I’m impressed.” He ran a nail through a crack in the floor. “You even got the grit out from between the tiles.”

“That time I’m pretty sure it was the angel blood,” Sam said. “Maybe I should have saved some before I cleaned it away?”

“Nah, that sounds like a good way to get smited,” Dean said. “Smote? Whatever. We’re already dodging enough thunderbolts as it is.”

He stood up and went to grab the broom and dustpan out of the hall closet so he could clear up what Sam’s spell hadn’t caught.

“I think you might be right about that,” Sam said. He watched Dean sweep, brows drawn in concern. “What Castiel was saying earlier…”

“About my soul being damned?” Dean asked. “And me starting the apocalypse? Come on, that can’t be for real. He’s gotta be mistaken. There’s no way I’m some kind of...cosmic linchpin.”

“I don’t know,” Sam said nervously. “He sounded really serious. Both of them did.”

“Yeah, but me?” Dean asked. “‘The point on which the fate of the universe turns?’ As if. I’m just some random guy from Kansas. Meanwhile Dad’s out there fighting demons every day and you’re like some kind of overgrown Harry Potter who’s apparently hot stuff in hell. Even Missouri and Dede can literally see the future. How is it me with the big angelic problem?”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Dean,” Sam said. “You’ve got the high score on Big Buck Hunter down at the bowling alley.”

“Yes, yes I do,” Dean said. “But if that’s all it takes to end the world, then I think the Bible may have gotten a few things wrong. Besides, it’s like you said - I’d never sell my soul to a demon. I know better than that. None of it adds up. How do we even know those guys were really angels and not, I don’t know -”

“Demons in disguise?” Sam asked. “Because there’s a devil’s trap on the ceiling.”

Dean glanced up. He squinted, then realized that Sam was right. There was a devil’s trap. Sam had painted it in a soft yellow color that was almost invisible to the naked eye.

“Maybe you got it wrong,” Dean suggested.

“I didn’t get it wrong,” Sam said, annoyed. “I never get it wrong.”

Dean shrugged.

“Then I don’t know,” he said. “This could be some kind of weird shared psychosis. Or a fever dream.” He snapped his fingers. “I could be dreaming.”

“You’re not dreaming,” Sam said.

“That’s what dream Sam would say.”

Sam rolled his eyes and pulled the kitchen table back onto its feet. Then he started gathering the place mats off the floor and rearranging them on the table.

“Believe what you want, I guess,” he said. “Do you think Castiel will be back soon? He was looking pretty rough.”

“Who knows,” Dean said, dumping the contents of the dustpan in the garbage. “I guess we should hope none of his other angel pals decide to kill him like that dick Zachariah. Or that Zachariah doesn’t come back to wipe our memories.”

“It’s not like we’ll know if he does,” Sam said.

“True,” Dean said. He put the broom back in the closet, then stood in the doorway with his hands on his hips. “At the risk of tempting fate, are there anymore bombshells that want to drop before I take a nice long shower and go to bed?”

He and Sam stood silently for a moment. 

Sam’s phone began to ring.

“Are you kidding me?” Dean snapped.

“It’s just Bobby,” Sam said, fumbling to answer. “He’s probably worried about why I hung up on him.” He held the phone to his ear. “Hey Bobby! Yeah, we’re fine. What? Yes, that was a gun you heard. No one got shot, though. Well, fatally.” He motioned silently to Dean with one hand to get going.

Dean didn’t need any further prompting. He slumped toward the bathroom, ready to zone out under the hot water for an hour and then sleep for a week. Secretly, he sort of hoped Zachariah would come back and wipe his memory. It beat the alternative.

Dean Winchester. Starting the apocalypse.

Great. So the sneaking suspicion that absolutely everything that went wrong was somehow his fault wasn’t just his paranoia talking. It might actually, literally turn out to be true. He was sure that would have no negative impact on his self-esteem whatsoever.

“Happy birthday,” he muttered to the busty mermaid soap dispenser as he shucked off his pants.

She beamed at him in response.

Well, at least there was someone left in the world he hadn’t yet managed to let down.

][

Dean woke the next morning with his memories - fortunately or unfortunately - still intact. He rolled over and contemplated going back to sleep, but found that he couldn’t. With a sigh, he got up and slouched to the kitchen to get himself a cup of coffee. 

Sam was already there with the morning paper, filling in the crossword with a pen like the freak that he was.

Castiel was also present.

He was sitting stiffly at the table across from Sam, looking awkward and uncertain, still in that same trench coat, dress shirt, and tie.

“Morning Sam,” Dean said. Then, with great resignation, “Morning Cas.”

“Morning,” Sam said, not looking up.

“Good morning,” Castiel said. “Out of respect for your inconvenient biological need for sleep, I have waited several unnecessary hours for you to wake. I come bearing grave tidings.”

“Cool,” Dean said. “No grave tidings before I’ve had my coffee.” He thought about that, then decided, “I should get that printed on a mug.”

“Heaven has no clear answers for me,” Castiel went on, heedless. “I could only risk minimal contact with the other members of the Angelic Host, especially with my grace so diminished. Without being sure what Zachariah’s intentions really are, I can no longer be certain whether even my original mission to save your soul was the right one. God, whatever His will may be, remains painfully silent in response to my prayers. Until my powers have returned to their full strength, it seems I will be forced to determine the correct course of action on my own.”

“I said no grave tidings before I’ve had my coffee,” Dean repeated.

“It occurs to me,” Castiel said, “that killing you before you have a chance to sell your soul would solve my problem, should I decide that it truly is God’s will to prevent the apocalypse.”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “Definitely getting it printed on a mug.”

“Hey,” Sam interrupted. “What’s a seven letter word for ‘The Donation of Constantine?’ It starts with ‘F.’”

“Forgery,” Castiel answered unhappily.

“Thanks,” Sam said, and wrote it in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter this time! I kind of feel like this is the start of 'Part Two' lmfao. We're getting there..... Updates will probably slow down a bit now though.
> 
> Note about canon: I initially had this on the first chapter and then deleted it because I was actually sticking pretty close to canon aside from the AU stuff, but with the arrival of angels, it's now become relevant again. So -
> 
> I pretty much consider everything after season 5 to be optional, especially since the show itself has minimal consistency. This is extra true for the witchcraft stuff, which I've essentially made up wholesale aside from a few things. There's just so much contradictory and confusing lore. I'd rather play around and write to fit a tone than try and make it match canon. The same thing basically extends to all other post-s5 lore. Expect some cherry picking. Nothing wild and crazy, don't worry too much, but mechanically speaking it probably won't acknowledge or fit with some stuff that happens in later seasons.
> 
> Chapter title is 'Hallowed Be Thy Name' by Iron Maiden.


End file.
